


her crowning glory

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 66,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The laws are clear: to be crowned Queen of Eala, a princess has to be married. Emma has a month to find a husband, or else the crown will be snatched from her and given to the only other heir to the throne, one Killian Jones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She stands out like a sore thumb in the house, barely daring to sit on the couch or even move in fear of breaking something, anything. Everything looks expensive – hell, one vase alone would pay her future college tuition for a year – and Emma finds herself wondering for the hundredth time what she is even doing here.

She pushes her glasses up her nose and watches as a woman enters the room, all pretty dresses and professional smiles as she presents herself as “Belle, personal secretary” (the _fuck_?) and leads her to the gardens. As beautiful and expensive as the living room, of course, with wild colourful flowers and perfectly sculpted bushes. Emma is so used to the small apartment she has shared with Granny and Ruby all her life that she doesn’t know how to react to all that space – what do people do with those big houses, seriously?

Not that she has much time to ponder on the question.

“Emmaline.”

She turns around at the soft voice and replies “Emma, just Emma,” out of habit even as she looks the woman over. Her face is as soft as her voice, with cropped black hair and an all-too familiar look, although Emma can’t exactly place it. The woman’s smile is kind too as she grabs Emma’s hands in hers, pressing softly. She fights the urge to jerk away from the touch.

“Emma it is, then. Come, it’s tea time.”

The table on the patio may be lovely and the pastries may look tasty, but Emma is too focused on insulting Granny in her head, for forcing her to meet this woman for no other reason than _because I say so_ , to actually care about tea time as she settles down in one of the seats. Still, Granny didn’t raise no fool so Emma places the napkin on her lap and is careful not to put her elbows on the table – the woman, despite her soft features, looks like the kind to care about those things.

A waiter comes to pour hot water in her cup (a freaking personal waiter!) and she takes a few (long) seconds to stir her tea before dwelling on a “Soooo?” she hopes not to sound rude but straight to the point.

It seems to work on the lady.

“Emmali – _Emma_. Have you ever heard of Eala?”

Emma only needs a moment, the name ringing a bell from hours trying to learn by heart all the European countries and their capitals for a geography test last year. “The tiny country between France and Spain.”

She doesn’t need the woman nodding to know it’s the good answer, but smiles proudly anyway at her own knowledge, even if she has no idea what that has to do with anything else – it’s just a little patch of land stuck between two much larger countries, so what?

“Then you might also know Eala is a monarchy. As it so happens –” The woman coughs, almost nervously. “I am Mary Margaret Blanchard, queen of Eala. And… I’m also your mother.”

Emma bursts into laughter.

The kind that leaves her breathless and rocking back and forth on her chair, cheeks aching from too much smiling as she snorts on the air in less than elegant noises. But gosh, Ruby outdid herself on that prank, and Emma both wants to slap her and hug her for how intricate the whole thing is – renting a house and an actress for the day, _really_? It’ll teach Emma to switch her red hair dye for green, that’s for sure. She barely manages a sarcastic “yeah, right” before she falls into another fit of giggles as she looks left and right, waiting for her best friend to jump out of her hiding spot at any moment. But Ruby doesn’t show up and the woman facing Emma remains stoic, arms stiffly folded in front of her on the table, just waiting for what seems like an obvious knee jerk reaction – like the woman isn’t all that surprised, like she expected it to happen somewhat, the disbelief.

Her laughs die at the back of her throat.

“Oh my god, you’re not joking.”

“Emma…”

“ _Oh my god_.”

The familiar features of the woman’s face make sense now that Emma looks more closely – she recognizes her own chin in hers, the same shade of green of their eyes, hell, even their mouths look similar. She seems young, too, but it doesn’t come as a surprise to Emma – in her wildest dreams, her mother had mostly been pregnant with her as a teenager, never older than eighteen. It made sense to her then, and it still makes sense today.

It’s the only damn thing that actually makes sense.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hisses, leaning forwards with her elbows on the table – more offensive than defensive a stance, perhaps. But she has every right to be offensive, to be pissed and confused and lost because – because nothing else about this situation makes sense. Granny had never explained in details why she had been the one raising Emma and not her parents, only some vague excuses about it being complicated, that there was no other choice than for Emma to live with the older woman and her granddaughter.

‘Complicated situation’ for her had always meant teenager pregnancy and an obvious lack of money – both logical and understandable. You cannot really resent your mother for wanting what is best for you, after all. But now, a queen? An obviously well-off, educated, clearly not unemployed homeless queen?

Emma’s world and convictions have been turned upside down in a matter of minutes.

The queen winces at the swear word but thankful doesn’t comment, instead raising her hands in surrender. “I can explain. Just listen, _please_.”

But Emma doesn’t want explanations. She doesn’t want pretty lies wrapped into royalty wrapped into sixteen years of abandonment. It’s too late for that already, and nothing the woman – her _mother_ , damn – can say will change that.

“What do you want from me?”

For Emma wasn’t born yesterday – after a lifetime of radio silence, the woman might want something from her if she is here. It is anything but a simple visit, or else Granny wouldn’t have forced her to attend without an explanation. Granny isn’t that cruel, she would have softened the blow, would have prepared the ground for Emma to be mentally ready for the truth bomb. No, it all sounds messy and hurried, it all sounds like an emergency.

“I – the doctors found out I was infertile last month. You’re my only child. You’re the legal heir – the _only_ heir to the throne.”

Emma’s laugh is high-pitched, borderline on hysterical. “Yeah sorry, I’m not here for that princess nonsense.”

That seems to upset the queen but, really, if she expected sympathy for the baby-making part, she obvious barked up the wrong tree. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows set into a frown, lips pursed in a pout as she ponders on her next words. Still, no amount of thinking makes her “Your country needs you. I need you” okay in Emma’s mind.

“You need me? Well, that’s rich coming from the woman who didn’t give a fuck about me for _sixteen years_.” The queen opens her mouth, but Emma doesn’t leave her the luxury of a reply. “Where were you when _I_ needed _you_? Where were you when I had nightmares, when I needed help with my homework, when I got my heart broken for the first time? Why should I help you when you were never here for me?”

She is on her feet before she even think of standing up, hands pressed against the table as she leans forwards, glaring at the woman in front of her. She needs to leave, now, all her instincts screaming for her to run, run and never look back.

“Find yourself another princess. This one is already busy.”

And run she does.

 

…

 

“I now proudly present this year’s Harvard Kennedy School of International and Global Affairs graduating class.”

The crowd of students breaks into loud clapping and even louder cheers as they jump to their feet, throwing their caps up in the blue summer sky. It’s a warm day and Emma feels like suffocating in her black gown, but someone suddenly pulls her into a hug and she soon forgets that minor detail as she celebrates with her friends, with a great many hugs and kisses and improvised dance moves, selfies taken and posted on Instagram in a matter of seconds. It feels like goodbye – it _is_ goodbye – but the melancholia of the moment doesn’t make her sad. A chapter of her life is closing only for another one to begin.

Her friends are begging her to write, _okay, I know you’ll be busy but don’t forget us_ , when she is pulled into yet another hug. Granny’s arms are familiar around her shoulders, and she gives the old lady a watery laugh before hugging her back, hiding her nose in Granny’s neck and taking a deep breath. More than anything, she’ll miss that perfume, perfect mix of coffee and flowers and freshly cooked pancakes, that perfume that lingered in their apartment for so many years.

“I’m so proud of you, my darling girl.”

Granny’s habitual firm voice is wavering with emotions, enough for the tears to finally spill out of Emma’s eyes as she presses a kiss to the old woman’s cheek with trembling lips. They’ll meet again soon enough – Emma’s twenty-first birthday is in October and Granny will fly to Eala for the coronation that will follow – but it doesn’t make leaving the woman who raised her any less painful.

Leroy’s hand on her elbow forces her to let go of Granny’s tender embrace, a nod from the head of security all Emma needs to follow him through the crowd with one last ‘I love you’ mouthed to Granny and a handful of waves and quick hugs to her friends. Leroy’s hand rests on her arm all the way to the parking lot, where a car waits to bring them to the nearest airport. He opens the door to her, and only then does he smile at her – this tight smile of his that always seems forced and sarcastic but warms his eyes and whole face.

“For the record, I’m proud of you too.”

“A compliment, really?” she teases back. “Armageddon is near.”

He hushes her inside the car with a bark of laugh and headshake then closes the door behind her and goes sit next to the chauffeur.

It’s barely more than a twenty-minute ride from the university to Boston Logan Airport yet Emma’s eyes don’t leave the scenery outside the window for a second, as if trying to commit everything she sees to memory one last time. Chances are she will not be back to Boston any time soon – if ever – and like everything else, she’ll miss it. It was home for twenty years, after all, and even if her summer visits to Eala were pleasant ones, she knows it will take time for the small country to become _home_.

Leroy jokes about her not changing in the car _for once_ , and she smiles at the memories even as she doesn’t look away. She will have enough time to change in the plane, after all, what with the ten-hour flight awaiting her. And indeed, it is only a matter of minutes before the car reaches the airport, bypassing the main entries and making its way to the smallest, non-commercial runways until it stops in front of the Ealan private jet – so small compared to the other planes, yet more comfortable than any first class on any company.

The trunk is opened, Leroy grabbing her large suitcase, by the time Emma gets out of the car – another one is already stationed there, surely with the rest of her stuff both from Granny’s apartment and her dorm room. It’s a lot of suitcases, but all her life is packed in there, giving a sense of finality to the whole day. She closes her eyes and sighs, chest heavy with the last deep breath of American air she takes.

(She is overdramatic, she knows.)

Inside the jet are only a handful of seats, large and comfortable, facing a television screen on the wall leading to the bathroom. On one of them rests a fluffy ball of white fur, and Emma makes a beeline for it, lips curved into a grin as she coos her dog’s name. Ava barely opens an eye at her owner’s presence, lazily wagging her tail before going back to sleep – a royal dog through and through.

On the seat next to her pet are a hatbox and a small carry-on bag – Leroy is thoughtful that way. She decides now might be as good a moment as every to finally get rid of her gown and slip on more comfortable clothes, while the fly attendants are still loading her suitcases and getting the plane ready for take-off. She opts for a long summer dress, letting her hair fall from its intricate braid and getting rid of her make-up and high heels. By the time she settles into a seat, Ava on her lap, they are ready to go.

She quickly finds herself dozing in and out of consciousness, ten-minute naps then trying to follow the movie playing on the television – some action flick Leroy is so fond of for reasons she’ll never understand – only to fall back to sleep for the night soon after. She’s one of the lucky people to actual be able to sleep on a plane, and so she takes advantage of that talent, knowing she needs her rest, if only because she can’t afford being jetlag when a ball will be thrown for her during the following evening.

She is shaken out of her sleep by Leroy’s hand on her shoulder and a soft “Your Highness, wake up. We’re about to land.” (At least, as soft as Leroy’s voice can be, which isn’t _that_ soft.)

Emma rubs the sleep off her eyes as she sits straighter before leaning towards the window. And there it is, miles and miles of fields between two mountains, green and vibrant in the morning sun. Her lips curl in a smile at the sight, at the little dots of blues and whites as the plane flies over small lakes and small villages. Eala, _her_ Eala, so close, welcoming Emma in its warm embrace – all nostalgia and sadness gone for now, only the thrill of the moment running through her veins. _Home_ , she thinks, even if the word is empty of its meaning for now.

It will change soon.

It takes less time to land than it did taking off, and soon she finds herself grabbing bag and dog, large hat on her head protecting her eyes and face from the unforgiving Mediterranean sun. Rightfully so, as all she feels when they open the door is _heat_ – the wind on her face warm, the sun in the sky blinding, the air hot and suffocating in her lungs.

A chuckle escapes her lips, soon followed by a longer fit of giggles.

Once on the tarmac, Emma lets go of Ava – who happily starts running to and fro after too many hours not moving – and reaches into her handbag until she finds her phone.

“Here, take my picture,” she asks Leroy as she hands him the device.

Wind comes to the party right when the chief of security is about to immortalize the moment, and so Emma finds herself looking away as she holds on to her hat, hair flying around her face, huge grin on her lips. It makes for a beautiful picture, very Grace Kelly, and Emma snatches the phone back so she can post it on Instagram.

(The royal councillors were wary of the idea at first, the crown princess playing girl next door, but quickly changed their mind when it was pointed out that it only made her more popular and loved by the people. She still doesn’t understand what is so fascinating about her posting pictures of food or Ava, but she plays along anyway.)

“Can we go now?” Leroy asks, doing a poor job of hiding his annoyance at her antics.

She almost wants to bother him a little while longer, for the heck of it, but thinks better of it if only because she is famished and wouldn’t say no to a warm bath right now. So, putting her phone back in her bag, she nods and follows him to the car waiting for them a few feet away.

It is yet another half-hour ride to the royal castle, and Emma feels reckless by then, barely hiding her joy and relief at finally making it to their destination. She is barely out of the car that the queen appears by the main doors, looking slightly dishevelled (Emma doesn’t put it past her to have woken up only minutes before). She stumbles down the stairs, neither quite regal nor graceful in that moment, before wrapping Emma into a tight embrace.

“Hello, Mother,” she whispers, overwhelmed by the unexpected display of affection.

When Mary Margaret lets go of her, it’s to grab both her hands in her, tears spilling out of her beautiful eyes. “I am so glad to see you, darling.”

Her voice sounds equally gleeful and relieved – after all those years, she still expects Emma to get out of dodge at any given opportunity. It would hurt, if it weren’t based on facts. So she only smiles and hugs her mother once more.

“I missed you too.”


	2. Chapter 2

Even as the corset hugs her waist almost painfully, Emma finds herself swaying her hips, delighted with the way the skirt pools around her legs, moving in waves of red satins with each movement of her body. The dress is beautiful, far from the clothes she’s used to wearing, especially with the addition of long white gloves and the delicate tiara resting against her intricate up-do. She almost doesn’t recognize the woman she sees in the mirror, more used to Emma, American student, than Emmaline, Ealan crowned princess. A sight still foreign to her, yet one she’ll have to live with for the rest of her life. The thought makes her sigh.

“You look lovely, Your Highness.”

Belle stands in the doorframe of the bedroom, headpiece curled around her ear and huge smartphone in hand, a kind smile on her lips as she takes in the princess in front of her. Emma smiles back, even if the curve of her lips lacks confidence as anxiety slowly creeps inside her belly.

She’s yet to be used to those social gatherings, to mingling with lords and barons, members of government and duchesses. So a ball thrown in her honour, where all eyes will be on her and where she is no allowed a single mistake? Ever the bravest would worry, and Emma wishes for her jeans and leather jacket – her armour more effective on her confidence than the gown she’s wearing, no matter how pretty it is.

“Will he be here tonight?”

Thankfully, Belle is intuitive enough to know whom Emma is talking about, and so doesn’t need details before answering the question. She also goes straight to the point, with a simple “No” that has Emma’s smile faltering on her lips. “He hardy, if ever, comes to such social gatherings. His lord father, on the other hand, will be here tonight.” There is a small pause, before Belle adds, like an afterthought, “You’d better not talk to him.”

That much Emma knows. Not that she’d willingly start a conversation with the man to begin with – Lord George Nolan seems like a dreadful person, never smiling and always throwing nasty glares her way, like she suffers from some contagious infection. Emma has learnt to simply ignore him.

Still, it doesn’t stop disappointment from mixing with nervousness within her at the knowledge that her meeting with the younger Lord Nolan still isn’t for today. So with a loud huff that says a lot about her state of mind, she puts on her bravest face, straightening her back and raising her head, as she follows Belle out of the room and through the castle’s hallways. The path from her bedroom to the ballroom isn’t a foreign one, but the empty hallways are a sight to behold, usually full of guests and servants, guards at every corner. It makes for a silent trek, the clicking of her heels on the marble floor and the buzzing of Belle’s phone the only sounds echoing against the walls.

Around the last corner, the soft sound of music and chattering come to her from behind closed doors, guards standing on each side of the large doorframe. They slightly bow to her when she comes in sight before putting their hand on the iron handles, waiting for their cue. Belle busies herself with her phone, whispering a small ‘two minutes’ to them that has Emma’s heart pounding faster against her ribcage.

She takes a large inspiration, gathering her wandering thoughts. She’d been part of the drama club in high school, mostly because Ruby had forced her hand, and had landed a role in their rendition of My Fair Lady. But the nervousness she had felt on the first night, waiting for the curtains to open, was nothing compared to waiting behind the wooden doors. Especially when the ballroom falls silent, music and discussions dying at once to leave place for her mother’s speech.

“Thirty seconds,” Belle says and, on cue, the trumpets start playing and Emma’s heart breaks a hole through her ribcage.

The majordomo announces, “Presenting her Royal Highness, Emmaline Eva Ruth Blanchard, Princess of Eala.” The guard open the door then and, after taking a deep breath, Emma makes her entrance at the top of the grand staircase.

The ballroom at her feet is full, men in suits and women in colourful dresses, carrying glasses of champagne – but, mostly, all staring at her. She forces a smile she hopes natural and friendly on her lips, even if her cheeks hurt with the effort, and offers her a small wave.

Her mother, breathtakingly beautiful in her pale blue dress and golden crown, raises her glass to her. “To Princess Emma,” she says, and people all around her raises their glass too, sharing the toast with her.

It’s all kinds of awkward to Emma, and she’s certain her cheeks match the crimson of her dress by now, but she accepts it all with a curt nod before walking down the marble stairs, careful not to trip even if she can’t stare down at her own feet. When her heels find the floor, she heavies a sigh of relief – the worst is behind her. Or so she tries to convince herself.

Mary Margaret pulls her into a hug, brushing a kiss against Emma’s cheek as they share gleeful smiles – their relationship may still be rocky at best, but they both know how to put on a poker face in front of an audience, and nobody would know better by watching them act like the perfect mother and daughter they’re supposed to be.

Still, as conversations start again and the attention is no longer on her, Emma downs the first glass of champagne she comes across, hoping the bubbly drink will ease her nerves. No such luck, it seems, so she does a mentally check of her smile – still in place – and her posture – still perfect – before moving toward the first person she sees to greet them, as is expected of her.

By the time a woman wearing a dark dress and a scowl introduces herself as Baroness Cora Mills, a younger voice interrupts them with loud “Emma! Hey Emma!”

With a polite apology for the woman, Emma turns around in time to see a small figure fighting its way through the crowd, pushing and shoving them aside without any trace of remorse. Sparkling brown eyes and pretty dimples appears in front of her before she’s pulled into a childish hug, and Emma can only laugh at the overwhelming display of affection.

“Well, hello there, Roland.”

He has grown since the previous summer, and she remembers fondly how tiny and shy her was when she first met him five years ago. He shares his father’s confidence now, almost smug from all of his nine years of age and looking quite the dashing young boy.

“Daddy says you will have to dance with all the egili – ebilige – elibi –”

“Eligible men,” she helps him, barely able to swallow down a laugh. This kid is the cutest.

“Yes, that.” He flashes her a grin, all dimples and white teeth. “And I don’t have a girlfriend yet, so I’m it!”

The laugh bubbles out of her then, and she kneels down to plant a kiss on his cheek, leaving a beautiful trace of lipstick there. Roland blushes, even as he stands taller and prouder – her heart melts.

“Yes, that one is your son through and through,” comes a voice behind the kid.

Emma stands up to greet the couple coming closer, her smile growing more sincere at the sight of Robin, the Prime Minister, and his wife Marian. The beautiful brunette looks at her son with a shake of the head, but both look quite amused at their boy’s antics.

“Oh my god, familiar faces at last,” Emma sighs in relief as Robin bow and kisses the back of her hand before Marian pulls her into a hug, both laughing.

She had met them before even being introduced to the press and the world as the crown princess, and had immediately grown fond of the couple. Perhaps it is because they are of lower birth compared to everyone else in the room, or perhaps it is simply in their nature, but the Locksleys are less snotty than the usual member of the royal court, pleasant and charming. They had been the first to welcome Emma in that crazy world of theirs, teaching her everything her mother wouldn’t think of, and she will forever be grateful for their kindness and patience.

Also for their son, obviously.

“Come,” Robin says as his puts her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I will introduce you to the members of my government.”

There is no way in hell Emma will remember all those names at once, but she does her best as Robin leads her from one person to another with the ease of many years spent as the Prime Minister. Still, some names stick out in the princess’s mind: Anton at the agriculture, Archibald for the foreign affairs, Kathryn as the head of the justice department. The others, Emma will have to learn along the way – her mind is already a mess as it is, anyway, the champagne not helping in the least. Yet, even if their names elude her, Emma takes an interest in each and every one of them, knowing all too well she will have to work alongside the government in only a couple of months. So she asks about every department, about the future projects they have, both nationally and internationally, taking an interest in everything she is told.

Emma is offered a brief respite when the sound of shattering glass can be heard from the other side of the room, followed by a loud “Locksley!” Barely hiding a grin and a roll of the eyes, Robin excuses himself with amused words about his munchkin and _I can’t take him anywhere_.

Him gone, Emma finds herself alone for the first time this evening, and the need to just sit down and slip off her painful shoes is strong. Sadly for her, the night is still young, and it is but the beginning – many a young man still lines up, waiting for the ball to begin so they can share a dance with her. Such a prospect annoys her but, much like a friendly behaviour towards the members of government, she knows it to be essential. It is her Royal Court, after all, the people she will mix with all her life – she can’t afford to be unloved.

“Belle?” she asks over her shoulder. The secretary appears at her side immediately. “How many members of the government are left?”

“Only one. Lady Zelena, over there,” she replies with a discrete nod to a woman in a vibrant green dress. “You’re doing great so far.”

Emma flashes the brunette a smile before making her way towards the other woman. Her red hair is as vibrant as her dress and, when she turns around to face the princess, so are her eyes, blue like a cloudless sky. Everything, from her slender frame to her warm smile, makes her beautiful, and she offers Emma an elegant bow, grin growing bigger by the second.

“Lady Zelena, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness.”

Her voice is melodious on top of everything else, and Emma wonders how such a woman, obviously part of the nobility if her title of a lady is anything to go by, could find herself into a political career. Not that there is anything wrong about that, mind you, Emma is actually quite grateful for the number of women at the head of Eala, far from the governments full of greying old men other countries are used to. Still, she would have picture a woman such as Zelena as the perfect party animal, not as a politician. But to each their own, after all.

“Excuse me, but I didn’t catch which department you’re the head of?”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, You Highness,” she replies with another one of her smiles. “I take care of everything that has to do with the health of the Ealan population. Health care, hospitals, scientific research and the likes.”

An important department as any, especially with how efficient Emma knows it to be – it is quite the novelty for her to be at the head of a country with free health care, after having spent all her life in the United States. She is proud of Eala for spending more money on health and education than it does on its military forces, and knows she’ll have to get along well with Lady Zelena if she wants things to run smoothly for years to come.

So, with a nod and a smile, she asks for more information about their research labs and the projects they’re working on at the moments, as well as their hospitals. Eala may be a small country, but owns two of them, and Zelena goes into great lengths explaining that they have one of the most modern and developed paediatric yards in Western Europe, with renowned doctors within its walls. That’s how Emma learns that, more than a politician, the lady is first and foremost a paediatrician, beautiful voice lulling her into tales of her years as an intern.

In the middle of one of those stories, another arm snakes around Emma’s, startling her. When she looks to her left, it’s to a more familiar mane of red hair and equally familiar green eyes. The newcomer puts her chin on Emma’s shoulder like she just belongs there, the princess’s lips curling into a grin as Lady Zelena finishes her sentence without even a pause – it doesn’t come as a surprise that others are used to the girl’s antics.

“But I speak too much. I’ll leave you to your party,” Zelena finishes, then adds with a bow, “It was nice meeting you, Your Highness. Lady Ariel.”

Another bow before backing down with the same elegance she had when speaking, leaving Emma and Ariel to stand next to each other, silent for a few seconds.

“What an interesting woman,” Emma whispers after a while, more to herself than for Ariel’s sake.

“I know, right?” Another pause before the redhead offers her a high-pitched squeal and hugs her tightly, to which Emma can only laugh in reply. “I missed you!”

The feeling is mutual, of course – Ariel is, after all, Emma’s longest Ealan friend, daughter of a close friend of her mother’s. The girls had met the first summer Emma had spent in her tiny country, hitting the beaches with Ruby almost every day when they weren’t partying. A schedule they kept every summer from then, Ariel introducing Emma to other children of the nobility and to the most beautiful parts of the country under the warm Mediterranean sun.

If the light sunburn kissing her nose and cheekbones is anything to go by, Ariel still hasn’t lost her love for the beaches of white sands and the colourful cocktails that come along with it. Good, Emma thinks, she’ll be able to take a break away from the castle if needed. But such break will have to wait for, hand in hers, Ariel is already pulling her towards another side of the room, speaking in hurried whispers of all the gossips Emma missed during the past year, before they reach their group of friends. She then finds herself pulls into many a hug, happy to see them all again – Mulan, in her traditional Chinese outfit, Aurora and her snide comments for the older guests, Eric with his arm wrapped around Ariel’s waist.

Emma feels herself breathing again for the first time since she entered the ballroom, her smiles taking a more natural edge, her laugh free and loud. She almost forgets the context of such a meeting, or that her friends all wear titles that would have made her dizzy a few years ago. It is her life now and, if she forgets Aurora is a Duchess of all things, it doesn’t feel any different from hanging out with her college friends to celebrate the end of midterms. It just comes along with more expensive clothes (with pieces of jewellery Aurora begs her to post on Instagram) and champagne instead of beers.

Perfectly casual.

“Lord Pompous is here,” Mulan says all of a sudden, curtailing Aurora and Ariel’s discussion about Kate Middleton’s latest outing.

In perfectly synchronized movements, they all turn to the person Mulan is watching, standing by the other side of the room. In his black tuxedo and with a scowl on his face, Lord George isn’t without reminding Emma of the Baroness she met earlier that evening – they would go well together, she thinks bitterly.

“Look at him,” Aurora whispers only to be heard of her friends. “King in the castle.”

That forces a smirk out of Emma, the comment all too accurate. He looks down at everyone around him like the aristocrat he is, one of the many reasons she despises that man she has never even met. That sense of superiority, especially when surrounded by people as wealthy and powerful as he is, is one Emma cannot tolerate – and, thankfully, one not many members of the court share, even if many of them are condescending in their own ways. But there is something about Lord George, about everything he represents, that doesn’t sit well with her.

“I need a drink”, she says, to nobody in particular.

“Coming with you,” Mulan adds.

Emma is grateful for her friend’s presence at her side and for her quiet demeanour – she likes Aurora and Ariel all right, but their attitude is over-the-top more often than not, borderline on nosy, and nothing she needs right now. When they reach the bar, Mulan asks a waitress for two cups of champagne while Emma doesn’t waste time, stuffing two amuse-bouches in her mouth without ceremony.

“Have you any plans of meeting –” Mulan starts, handing her one of the cup.

But she doesn’t get to finish her question, Emma downing the glass the only reply she needs on the sore subject, so the Chinese girl offers her an understanding smile and a pat on the shoulder. At least the champagne settles down warmly in her stomach, easing some of her discomfort – still, she wishes for a stronger alcohol like vodka or, better, rum. None of which are served tonight.

“Okay,” she says with a sigh, squaring her shoulders once more. “Let’s go back to the others.”

But she doesn’t get to make a single step towards her friends for when she turns around on her heels, it’s to collide against someone’s chest, strong arms snaking around her waist immediately so she doesn’t lose her balance.

When she looks up, all she sees are deep blue eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Her first thought is ‘oh my god, I’m going to fall in front of the whole government’, which isn’t that pleasant a thought to begin with. One of her heels, too high, too unstable, just slips on the marble floor and she feels herself falling backwards with no mean of stopping the inevitable. She’s going to end on her ass, she’s going to embarrass herself in front of all those people, and there is nothing she can do about it.

She even hears the beginning of a gasp coming from Mulan – and it says it all, that she managed to have her gasp when Mulan is usually so stoic and unfazed.

But it happens just like in the movies, one hand grabbing her elbow while the other snakes around her waist, stopping her fall and keeping her in place against the chest she just hit. Emma is the one to gasp then, the outcome so unexpected she doesn’t know how to react, if only to still in her saviour’s arms in fear of making things worse by moving the tiniest of fingers.

She looks up to the man, only to gasp once more – somewhat more discreetly, for which she’s both proud and thankful – because his eyes are the most vibrant blue she has ever seen. Deep and clear like the sea on a summer day and, oh, _of course_ his face – his everything else, really – would be handsome too. Because that’s just her luck, being saved by handsome lords from an inevitable embarrassment.

“Your Highness, are you all right?”

His English is lilted with the heaviness of his Ealan accent. It brings a shiver down her spine, and she feels like a fool for such a reaction. It is but a pretty voice on a handsome face, after all, no need to act like a blushing schoolgirl who doesn’t know better. So she schools her features, hoping against hope that her feelings were not written all over her face – if Mulan’s cough, soft and amused, is anything to go by, she failed miserably.

“Yes, yes. Thanks you.”

She stands straighter as to prove she says the truth, but has to put her hands on his chest to do so and – yes, she is definitely blushing by now. He only gives her a smile, more of a smirk really, but is gentleman enough not to offer further comments on the subject and instead lets go of her in careful movements. She ignores how cold she feels all of a sudden, without his arm around her. It is such a stupid thought, after all, not even worthy of her time.

Not that Emma has that much time to ponder on it, for she hears her mother calling after her. She only breaks eye contact to turn towards the sound of her name, before she looks at the man in front of her once more, offering him an apologetic shrug. He replies with a pout and a tilt of the head, as if to say ‘it’s okay, I understand’ – it’s almost alarming, how easy it is to communicate with him without using actual words.

It shouldn’t matter – it _doesn’t_ matter, and so she forces herself not to throw a last glance at him over her shoulder as she makes her way towards the queen. She does look for Mulan, though, and isn’t all that surprise to see Ariel and Aurora pounce on her the moment the handsome stranger loses himself into the crowd. A smile appears on Emma’s lips at how gossipy her friends are.

Smirk that disappears with only a few words in her mother’s mouth: “It’s time to open the ball, darling.”

She’d almost forgotten about that trivial detail. Not that she can avoid it now, for the band in a corner of the room change their tempo, from quiet background music to something louder and lively. She can’t escape this, and yet has no one to dance with – the prospect of asking a perfect stranger among the crowd of suitors, while mandatory, is unappealing at best. That is, until she feels a hand on the small of her back, pushing her towards the dance floor. A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she looks up to the man next to her.

“ _You_? An eligible bachelor?”

Eric offers a soft smile of his as he puts a hand on her waist. “Officially, yes.”

Emma snorts at that – for as long as she’s known Ariel, Eric was always by her side. They are those high school sweethearts Emma had only heard of in movies and books, never believing them to actually exist in the real world. And yet here they are, cute as a button and so deep in love with each other it makes her jealous sometimes, craving what they have. They just make it seem so easy, despite Ariel’s eccentricities, when Emma knows it is nothing but.

“Speaking of which,” Eric adds as he makes her twirl – he’s a good dancer, but she can’t afford to truly appreciate when other men after him might be dreadful at it. “She will probably ask you to be her bridesmaid in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh my god!” It’s louder than wanted, and high-pitched too, so other dancing couples around them throw glances their way, to which Emma replies with an innocent smile. Still, she beams at Eric right after – even when living on different countries, Ariel had made sure Emma knew of her disappointment of not being proposed on their anniversary a few months back. “Do you have the ring?”

“I do indeed. Aurora helped me choose it. Which of course means Aurora tried to make me buy the biggest, most expensive diamond in the shop…”

She manages a discreet laugh this time – the picture so vivid in her mind, for Aurora is the ‘girly girl’ of their little group, always up for a shopping session. Not that Ariel wouldn’t mind a big rock on her finger, come to think about it – she’s in love with everything shiny and pretty, after all.

Emma wants to add something along the line of _well I’ll probably hear her scream from a mile away when you ask_ , but the song ends at that exact moment, her mouth pursed into a sad pout at having to find a new dance partner. The whole idea sounds useless to her, having to dance and flirt with all the single men in the room – all in the name of decorum – when she’d rather spend her time with her friends. But her eyes meet her mother’s among the crowd, and Emma doesn’t dare crossing that line tonight, instead letting go of Eric’s embrace with one more sigh.

As dreaded, the whole thing becomes rather awful rather quickly. Not that all men are bad dancers, mind you – though she stops counting how many times some step on her foot after a while – but rather because all of them are as dull as a brick. You’d think that, being able to travel around the world and have the most extravagant hobbies, those men would know how to hold an interesting conversation.

Of course they don’t.

The small talk is even worse than the dancing – yes, she does enjoy it here in Eala (would wouldn’t?); no, she is not planning to go back to the United States any time soon (why would she?); thank you, she finds him rather pleasant too (a beautiful lie wrapped in a careful smile). They tell her about them, of course, about their family and estate and jobs. Emma has never taken part in a speed dating even before, not for a lack of Ruby trying to force her, but she guesses right now is a more expensive version of the thing. And she hates every second of it.

She hates how forced it looks, like they’re pushing her into a relationship, like they’re just telling her to pick a man and stick to it. She knows many a royal couple started as an arranged marriage – she knows it all too well – and yet Emma had hopes this would happen to her, for some reason. How wrong and naïve she was.

It blows out of proportions with the guy who doesn’t speak a single word of English and yet keeps talking to her in a French too fast for her understanding – she studied Spanish in high school but, gosh, French was never part of the plan before she realised her country shared a border with the country. Or with the guy who insists on using animal metaphors, and which girl in her right mind doesn’t want to be compared to a deer or a bird?

Or the guy who, despite his best efforts, couldn’t dance to save his life. Even if she’s been dancing for a good two hours now, Emma relishes in the fact that this is about the last one on her list of suitors for the night, and that she’ll be able to a well-deserved break after that – she can’t wait to stuff herself with food and champagne while Ariel babbles about everything she has witnessed in the meanwhile. But the man is awful, his body stiff as a plank of wood, apologizing every few second for stepping on her foot or leading her the wrong way, and she wants to put a stop to the dance here and there, if only to pull the poor guy out of his misery. Because it’s obvious he’s enjoying it as little as she is, staring at his feet, mouth pressed into a thin line and coat of sweat covering his forehead. She would even feel bad for him, were it not for her patience running low by the second.

Still, before she has time to stop this nightmare, or even open her mouth, another man’s hand grab her partner’s shoulder – it only takes a matter of seconds for the two to bow to each other and for her to switch partners, and then she’s drowning in deep blue eyes again.

_We’ve got to stop meeting that way_.

“My saviour,” she whispers, pouring enough sarcasm into the words not to show how relieved she actually is – not that she needs to sound sincere anyway, when the emotions must be written all over her face. _Again_.

“A princess always needs her knight,” is his reply, along with a smirk and a wink – it would be infuriating, not to mention sexist, were it not for the gleam of happiness in his eyes. “I’m glad I could be of any help, Your Highness.”

“Emma, actually. Her Highness is my mother.”

He only blinks at her at first, as if taken aback by this more than informal introduction, before settling into a soft, less cocky, smile. It suits him, she notes, makes him less arrogant all of a sudden, enhancing his handsome features.

“Emma it is, then.”

He says that like tasting the name, with the slightest hint of reverence, and only then does she realise how close they are – closer than with any of the other men, chests almost brushing, his hand high enough on her back for the fingers to press on the bare skin above the hem of her dress. She fights hard to repress a shiver, knowing well that he would feel it against his fingertips.

“I’m Killian.”

So simple, no surname and no title – _just Killian_.

She likes that.

She especially likes the way he makes her twirl – she closes her eyes at first, dreading the worst after the night she spent, but she settles back in his embrace delicately despite her negative thoughts. That curls up her lips, even more so when she sees Ariel not so subtlety giving her two thumbs-up behind Killian’s back, her friend obviously delighted with that turn of events. Not doubt Emma will have a hundred questions thrown at her face once she is done with this dance.

Not that she’s planning to stop this dance any time soon, mind you, not when she’s actually enjoying herself for the first time since dancing with Eric.

“You know,” he adds, and she looks back to his eyes – still so blue, urg, _the worst_. “Most men might find your silence off-putting. But I love the challenge.”

Emma scoffs then – despite the soft eyes and smiles, of course he’s as handsome as he’s arrogant and smug. Like most lords are, she’s learnt quickly enough through the years. “I’m concentrating on the dancing, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Which is a lie, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“No, you’re not.” Another snort, followed by a pointed look, to which he replies, “The point of this ball is to find you a new beau. And you’re against the idea, rightfully so may I add. So you refuse to open up, because it leads to knowing the person, which leads to getting attached. Not to mention it would please your mother a little too much. And we can’t have that, now, can we?”

Emma only catches herself gapping when it’s too late, terror most likely pouring out of her every feature before she has time to school her face back into a neutral emotion. Her heart beats faster against her ribcage, verging on painful at that point, and she opts for taking a step back with the firm idea of stopping this dance and never standing next to him ever again. Not that he leaves her this luxury, hand pressing firmly against her spine as to pull her closer to his chest, fingers tightening their hold on her hand.

But there is nothing frightening or possessive about the way he looks at her, only… understanding? This can’t be right.

“It’s all right,” he whispers, a little too close to her ear for her liking. It brings a shiver down her spine and, this time, she’s certain he may have noticed it. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

She doubts so, but it’s not as if she’s in any position to fight against it – it’s not like she can go all medieval on Killian and throw him in the dungeons of the castle. Or ask Leroy for snipers to get rid of him before tomorrow morning, no matter how appealing the idea might be at the moment. So she only focuses on taking deep breaths and evening her heartbeat instead, trying not to let a panic attack overcome her while there are still so many people in the room. Once she’s back to her own bedroom, maybe, but not now.

“How did you –”

He doesn’t let her finish, which only adds to the frustration building inside her. He doesn’t _need_ to let her finish, already know what she is about to say. This Killian, whoever he is, is dangerous and she needs to avoid him at all cost. Her life is already too complicated, her responsibilities too great, to entertain the idea of letting her into her life and past the walls she so carefully built around her heart when she was only a teenager. Killian is danger, a danger she can’t afford right now.

“You’re somewhat of an open book,” he says at first, as if it is enough of an answer – it isn’t. “It’s been five years, yet you still have that look in your eyes. The one all orphans share.”

She jerks her head back to stare at him. This definitely isn’t funny anymore, not that it ever was to begin with. Leroy had warned her, and she’d always been careful of the friends she’d made, the parties she’d attended, the things she’d post online. Still, for this guy to know so much about her, to know something she never even put into words… Emma refuses to believe it is a mere coincidence, refuses to believe someone could have such a good grasp of her inner thoughts after only five minutes next to her.

_Great_ , she thinks, _I have a stalker_.

But the longer she looks at him, the more confused she gets, for he doesn’t look away from her, his eyes even in the emotions they show, and doesn’t miss a step as he leads her across the dance floor to the sound of the violins. It must be their second song by now, but neither of them finds it in themselves to care when engaged in such a staring contest, reading each other’s soul.

And what she reads… Well, yes, that’s the confusing part. Because it’s _familiar_. Watching into his eyes feels like staring back at herself in the mirror every morning – the same loneliness, the same idea of being lost and unloved no matter how many people are around you.

“You’re an orphan too.”

She doesn’t need a reply – now that she knows, she can see it written all over his face anyway. He instead gives her a soft smile, almost impish – they’re so caught up in the moment that both of them are startled by the tiny cough behind his back. He offers her a chuckle and a raised eyebrow, both lacking in confidence, before turning around to face no other than Roland, proud as a peacock with his hands behind his back.

“Emma, you said we’d dance!”

And, just like that, the charm is broken as Killian lets go of her hand at last, bowing to her before stepping back. Even as she flashes a grin to Roland and puts her hand to his tiny shoulder, her eyes search for Killian in the crowd – he glances at her over his shoulder one last time, with a smile and a nod, before disappearing. She gulps and focuses back on the child in front of her.

“Hey! Where were you when I was dancing with the awful ones?”

“They weren’t competition. He is.”

She’s so baffled by his answer that she can only gape at him at first, before bursting into laughter. The tension in her shoulders finally vanishes, and she relaxes in the boy’s embrace as they awkwardly sway to the sound of the music.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Yeah. I have absolutely no excuses.

The castle is quiet when she wakes up.

Emma’s mind is still clouded with too many a cup of champagne drunk the previous night, tongue tasting like sand and ears buzzing with the sound of music and conversations. She buries her face in the pillow with a groan, relieved that she has no obligation today – she wouldn’t be able to put on her royal face, not with that kind of hangover.

(She didn’t go to bed drunk, or so she thought, but she may have underestimated Ariel’s ability to refill her glass when she’s not looking. Again.)

She doesn’t want to get out of bed, not yet, so she snuggles closer to her blanket with Ava cuddling against her belly, and closes her eyes until she’s in that state between sleep and awake, mind wandering far away from castles and royalty and responsibilities. She feels so comfortable and warm that she even fancies herself staying right there all day long, her mother’s stern eyes be damned.

But thinking of her mother’s disapproval is enough to make her sigh and have all ideas of a lazy day go off the window in a matter of seconds. She rubs her eyes before she kicks the blankets away and paddles her way to the bathroom. Grace, her young handmaiden, has been given the day off, and so Emma lounges under the hot spray of the shower for longer than necessary, without feeling bad for keeping someone waiting on her.

(It’s still weird, having someone to brush her hair and help her in random tasks – an uncomfortable reminder of her stature and title, of the blood ruining through her veins. She has maids, and a butler, and a people that will look up to her when the time has come. It’s been years, but Emma still finds it baffling that it is her life now.)

Emma opts for comfort over fashion with her clothes, the kind she wore during her study sessions, and swaps her contact lenses for glasses, if only for the day. She doesn’t have anyone to impress today, after all, so she doesn’t see the point in dolling herself up. She pulls her hair in a high ponytail as she finds her way to the kitchens, and it’s only a matter of minutes before she happily chats with the cook, an omelette and cup of hot cocoa in front of her.

If Emma closes her eyes and focuses on the sounds and smells, she can almost picture herself back in Boston, during a shift at Granny’s.

She sighs – it hasn’t even been two days yet and she already misses her old life with a burning passion, wonders when she will stop aching for a home that is no longer hers. Perhaps she should call Ruby today, if only because the brunette’s excited voice is effective at soothing her worries.

“Oh, here you are.” Belle effectively startles her out of her thoughts, and Emma looks up to find the brunette standing in the doorway to the kitchens as she checks her smartphone. “You… actually don’t have anything planned today.” She looks up from the phone, surprise dancing in her blue eyes – days off are anything but common, in that world of theirs. “Do you want me to arrange an outing with Lady Ariel for you?”

Emma shakes her head vehemently – she loves her friend, she really does, but seeing her with a hangover from the previous night is a recipe for disaster. One that would most likely end in yet another hangover.

“I’ll just stay inside. Probably spend some time in our library, or something.”

Her answer seems to suit Belle, who’s always been a book lover, as she simply nods and types something on her phone, before leaving the kitchens. Emma does the exact same thing after one last sip of hot chocolate, and she soon finds herself wandering the quiet and empty hallways of her castle. Her footsteps echo on the marble floors as she looks at the paintings of the walls, kings and queen of past, landscapes of mountains, beaches, countryside. It’s like her little, private museum, and she travels back in time with each canvas on the walls, wonders of the story behind each painting, each portrait – were them good ruler? fair royals? as scared as she is at the idea of becoming queen?

Emma barely notices the path she’s taking, turning left and right to her mind’s desire, until she stops in her tracks and looks around her, confused. She’s yet to know the castle’s every nook by heart, and so needs a few moments to map the hallways in her mind and find out where she is. Not far from her mother’s office, if she isn’t mistaken.

That’s when she notices the smallest corridor to her left, hidden in the shadows. She knows it is not the kind of castle with hidden torture rooms and doors disguised as bookshelves (she’s already asked alright), yet a thrill of curiosity and excitement overcomes her as she takes a step toward the corridor, then another one.

The corridor is barely lit, and she brushes her fingers against the wall to keep her grounded. It lets to some kind of antechamber leading nowhere – which can’t possibly be right, or else this room wouldn’t be here to begin with. So her hand brushes the wall, as she hopes to find some secret handle, some hidden lever. And she realises how crazy that may look but then again it’s coming from the girl who learnt she was a royal when she was sixteen, so really…

Really she isn’t surprised when she _actually finds the secret door_.

A little yelp escapes her lips as the door opens, and she jumps inside the new room as if afraid it would disappear if she doesn’t. Her heart is beating faster, even more so when she finds a little window on the opposite wall – a window with direct view on the council meeting room.

Emma gasps as she moves closer to the window and watches the scene in front of her – all the Ministers reunited with her Queen mother, talking about issues of their country. She knows spying them isn’t exactly good behaviour, but she can’t help it because, damn, it’s going to be her job soon enough after all. (At least that’s the reason she gives herself, which is always better than a rabid curiosity.)

“Lady Zelena has the floor,” Robin says as he sits to her mother’s side.

With the same poise she had the previous evening, Lady Zelena stands up from her seat, straightening her dress on her stomach before she starts speaking. “As we all know, the twenty-first birthday of an heir to the Ealan bloodline is a matter of great importance, since it signifies this young person is eligible to assume the crown.”

“Indeed, we are aware of that fact,” the Queen replies, head high and proud, “But we have already established that my daughter will be crowned in November, once her twenty-first birthday has passed.”

“I wasn’t referring to Emmaline, Your Highness.”

A gasp escapes Emma’s lips before she can stop it, pressing her fingers to her open mouth as surprise takes over her features. Some of the Ministers show their stupefaction too, gazes wandering between the Queen and the other woman. She can’t make out their whispers over the loud buzzing in her ears, though, can only focus on the ghost of a smirk on Lady Zelena’s lips.

“Indeed, King Leopold the Second was the great-great-great-grandfather of my sister-in-law. She passed away years ago, but had a son, my nephew.”

Emma’s mind drifts away from there, and she barely hears, let alone understands, what comes out of the redheaded woman’s mouth. All she thinks is, _someone is going to take my crown away from me_ , and maybe even, _I didn’t went through the last few years for this_. Mostly she’s surprised at her own protectiveness over a crown she never even wanted.

“As of the twenty-third of July, my nephew Lord Jones is turning twenty-one, and so is becoming eligible to assume the throne of Eala.”

Mary Margaret looks as outraged as Emma feels, no doubt the same feeling on their features – damn be her royal composure as she glares at her Minister with eyes wide open and her mouth open in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” she manages to say, voice laced with bewilderment and velvet fury.

“Your Majesty, I am pleased to say Lord Jones will be ready to be crowned as the rightful King of Eala in a few weeks.”

The Queen mouths a silent curse, and Emma would laugh at her lose of composure were the situation different. As it turns out, she can only share the feeling, whispering a small ‘you fucking bitch’ nobody will have the privilege to hear. Saying she is fuming may be a bit of an understatement.

“Princess Emmaline remains the first in line to the throne,” Robin adds, for good measure.

“Not yet,” another minister, the one Emma remembers introduced himself as Archibalt the previous night, peeps in.

“Indeed,” adds Kathryn, “Ealan laws are formal on that point, I’m afraid. An Ealan princess must be married shall she want to become queen. You are well aware of that law, Your Highness.”

The Queen’s face, already so pale, loses its last colours as she presses her lips into a thin line – Emma waits for her to react, to complain, _do something_ , but nothing comes and she only stares at her Prime Minister, shares a silent conversation with him.

Robin nods even so slightly before clearing his throat. “I suggest we allow Princess Emmaline one year to find a husband, or else she forfeits the throne to Lord Jones.”

Emma’s eyes widen, blood running cold in her veins and heart skipping a beat. No, her mind scream, _no_ , she refuses. But, like many things in her life, the decision is ripped from her and she has no other choice but to watch, unwilling, as people make her choices for her.

“Six months,” one Minister chimes in.

“Until Lord Jones’ birthday,” another adds.

“Yes, until Lord Jones’ birthday,” a third approves.

She closes her eyes – misses the glance the Queen and Prime Minister share, misses the nod she gives him. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw, forbidding the angry tear to fall.

“It is decided, then,” Robin concludes with a sigh. “Princess Emmaline has until the twenty-third of July to find a husband.”

When she opens her eyes, all she sees is Zelena’s smug grin.

 

…

 

She stands in the throne room, looking up to the painting on the wall. She has always admired the portraits in the room, centuries of Ealan royalty immortalized by the most talented painters in Europe. It feels different this time, as she tilts her head to the side while watching that one portrait.

Her mother stands proud, as always, crown shining gold on her head and fur cape heavy on her shoulders – she stands proud and regal despite her young features, eyes wise and old beyond her age. She wasn’t that much older than Emma is now, twenty-three at most. But it isn’t what strikes her the most about the portrait; rather, it is the man standing by her side, as handsome and proud as her mother is.

Emma had never thought about it before – she liked Prince Lancelot alright, during the few months they’d known each other, before his sudden death of a heart attack that had left his queen and country in mourning. He was brave and kind, welcoming Emma in their dysfunctional family like the step-father he was, always with a smile, always with a gentle word.

She had never thought about it before, but it’s all she can think of now. Arranged marriage. It is so obvious she doesn’t know how she never connected the dots before, how she went on for so long thinking it could have been anything but a marriage of convenience.

She folds her arms on her chest, useless shield against the truths of life, as she hears soft footsteps coming her way.

“You knew all along. You knew and you didn’t tell me.”

Her mother sighs as her fingers graze Emma’s elbow, and she has to fight hard not to recoil from the touch. Instead, she forces herself not to look away from the painting, knowing fully well her boiling anger needs not to escape her.

“That’s why you had me dance with all those men yesterday, that’s why so many parties are organized this summer. So you could marry me off before my birthday.”

Another sigh before the Queen replies, “I was hoping you would find a suitor you truly love, so it wouldn’t look as forced as it is.”

She can’t help it – she glares at her mother, and it is the worst idea of all for she sees the sadness and exhaustion in her green eyes, sees the heartbreak in her tired features. Her heart squeezes at the sight, but the anger remains, crawling under her skin and burning into her veins.

“You should have told me.”

“I should have, yes, and I’m sorry.”

It’s not enough, it will never be enough, and so Emma takes a step back, then another, before turning her back to her mother. She feels small and used, but mostly she feels weak, nothing but a puppet in someone else’s hands, nothing but a pretty thing with blue in her veins and gold around her forehead.

“I won’t marry you off to the first idiot, Emma. You will get to pick your husband, of your own accord.” Emma scoffs, because nothing about this situation is of her own accord. “And you’ll see, you will grow fond of each other.”

She tightens her hold on her own chest, closes her eyes so tight she sees stars. “What if I don’t want to get married?”

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You don’t have to become queen.”

This is unfair, she thinks. Or maybe she whispers it, the words hanging in the empty throne room. This is unfair, for it to comes to down to centuries of patriarchal rules, for her to put her heart on the line so she can follow the path her mother opened for her five years ago. She has come so far from the little orphan from Boston, has endured so much to become the heir to the throne – is still working on it, building a relationship with her mother, learning everything there is to know about her country, her people. She has given up so much, her life and her friends and her home, her hopes and dreams, she has given up everything to fulfil the destiny that her mother had taken from her, had given her back years later. She was so close, fingers almost reaching the crown.

Emma feels like the world is crumbling around her, like nothing makes sense anymore.

So she sighs and presses her palms to her eyes, as she slides down against a column, sits on the cold marble floor.

It is a proof of their feeble relationship that her mother doesn’t come closer or comfort her, instead stares at her for afar with worry in her eyes. It is a mess, everything about this is a mess, and Emma sighs deeply as she draws her knees closer to her chest, props her chin on top of them with a thoughtful pout.

She looks back to the wall of paintings, her mother here, grandparents there, faces after faces of Blanchards, standing tall and proud despite the heavy weight on their shoulders, looking at her sternly from the past. She’s never questioned it before, everything she has done leading where she is now, but she feels the hungry needs clawing its way into her stomach now – the hum singing through her veins as she has finally found her way, her calling. This is who she is, who she has always been, even unknowingly. She is a princess, soon to be queen – a leader and a ruler, silver fist in a velvet hand, sharp fangs and soft lips. She is a queen, has been for two decades, and no usurper will take that away from her.

(This isn’t Game of Thrones, she thinks with a weak yet wicked smile, but it feels like it, sends a thrill through her spine. It will not end in fire and blood, but she will come out victorious.)

So she raises her head at last, looks her mother in the eyes, resolution burning in her emerald irises. “I get to choose who I marry. I, and no one else?”

“Yes,” her mother replies, slowly, carefully. “He ought to be of the nobility, of course, but it will ultimately be your choice, and no one else’s. You will meet him, of course, and let him court you. If the man is to your liking, you will get engaged and everything will be taken care of from then.”

It sounds so easy and her mother so detached about the entire process, it scares her a bit. But perhaps it is for the best, perhaps she needs the clinical sound to it, needs to think of it as an arrangement, a business matter. Her heart will wait, for it isn’t the point now.

Eala needs her, her country needs her.

Her heart can wait.

“Let’s go find a husband, then.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You know, it’s funny. Sounds came out of your mouth, but they didn’t make sense at all.”

Emma tends not to be a smartass when talking with her mother – they don’t share that kind of intimate relationship, where you can tease and get away with it – but the words escape her anyway as she trails after her mother down the hallways of the castle. Surely she must have heard wrong, because the queen’s statement doesn’t make sense in the slightest. But Mary Margaret spares her a look above her should as she keeps walking, a look that can only be described as challenging, and Emma knows better than to continue down that road.

Or at least, she would, where the situation different.

She can’t for the life of her wrap her mind about what her mother just told her – not only doesn’t it make sense, but it also is the craziest, stupidest idea anyone has ever had and… No. Just no, she can’t do it, impossible.

“I simply don’t understand why the government invited–”

“The government had nothing to do with it,” the queen says as she finally stops and turns around to face her daughter. “I did.”

Rare are the moments Emma is left speechless. And yet here she is, staring at her mother like a fish out of the water, eyes and mouth wide open in surprised terror. She almost wants to pinch her own arm and wake up from this terrible nightmare but – let’s face it, the situation is more worthy of hell than dreams, at this point.

“What – _why_?”

Mary Margaret puts a delicate hand on Emma’s shoulder, and so she knows whatever might come isn’t to be dealt with lightly. Touching doesn’t come easy to them, as with anything having to do with actual mother-daughter bonding, so Emma knows that this is as serious as conversations get. So she squares her shoulders, raises her head even so slightly, and listens.

“My job is to pass down my wisdom to you, but sometimes it is good to come back to basics,” she starts, then adds a smile. “Keep your friends close…”

“And your enemies closer,” Emma concludes for her, with a smile of her own – that has more to do with her majesty the queen quoting The Godfather than anything else, but oh well.

“Exactly. If they are plotting to overthrow us, I’d rather they do it right where we can see them.”

Emma can only nod. It makes sense of course, letting Zelena’s nephew stay at the castle for the next few weeks – guest of honour, as Mary Margaret had so elegantly put it. It makes sense, and Emma can see the logic behind that choice, the strategy too; it is nothing but politics, moving a piece across the chessboard and showing they still have the upper hand. It doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it though – she could do without seeing her would-be usurper every day, walking the hallways of _her_ castle, thank you very much.

Playing roommates with a posh boy with a superiority complex wasn’t exactly how she’d envisioned her summer.

(That and the entire arranged marriage thing but, well, she won’t think about it now of all times.)

Mary Margaret nods back, quiet determination in her eyes – she’s fierce, Emma will give her that, and even admit she admires that in her mother. “So we are going to put on our best smiles, and be the regal women we are, with charm and poise. Chin up, darling.”

Emma does just that, smile stretching on her lips, while Mary Margaret takes a lose strand of blond hair and tucks it back behind her ear. Charm and poise, Emma thinks, she can do this – it is in her blood, after all, even if it doesn’t always show.

“Chin up,” she parrots.

Apparently satisfied, Mary Margaret turns around and starts walking again, and Emma can only follow. They’re receiving their guests in the main hall, if only for decorum – guests usually enter through the private quarters, treated as friends and not nobility even if they’re just that. Emma can only admire that approach, that power play. They are at war, after all, even if the battles are those of wits and words, and so every detail counts. So Emma checks her outfit one last time, making sure that not a single wrinkle comes ruining her pale blue dress. (“You need to look innocent, non-threatening,” Ashley, the royal stylist, had said, which is why her hair is falling freely down her shoulder and not up in one of her intricate hair-dos. Like she said, every detail counts.)

Leroy is already in the hall when they enter it, looking threatening with his black suit and dark scowl. Emma’s lips twitch into a smirk at the sight of him, and amused relief courses through her veins – at least she isn’t the only one not approving of her mother’s little schemes, it is somewhat reassuring. He gives her an appraising look when she comes to stand next to him, as well as a barely-there nod, and she does indeed smile. If she has Leroy’s approval, then things can’t go that badly.

“Announcing Lady Zelena Baum and Lord Jones.”

Or maybe things will go very badly, if her heartbeat is anything to go by. She fights to keep some kind of composure, face devoid of emotions, least she shows her weaknesses to the enemy. Chin up, proud eyes, as she glances to Leroy one more time.

“Just say the word, and our snipers will be on him in a second.”

She has to bite her cheek to stifle a snort, because this is so not helping right now. “Do we actually have snipers?”

Leroy shrugs in reply, while Zelena and her nephew enter the room. Emma’s eyes barely dwell on Zelena (she still catches the smug smirk, though) before they land on the nephew, and she swears her heart misses a beat right then because – well, of course fate had to play such a cruel trick on her, of course it had to go that way.

She would recognize those blue eyes anywhere.

They meet hers, and Emma wonders if the guilt she read in them is actually there or just wishful thinking, because a second later it is gone – his face as impassive as hers as he walks toward her mother.

“Your Majesty,” he says as he takes her hand in his to kiss, bowing to her in the process. “Thank you so much for inviting me to stay at the palace.” He is the perfect image of a charming gentleman, already was at the ball a couple of nights ago, yet Emma can only see right through it, can only see the lies and schemes and wickedness.

Her mother turns to Zelena then, smile now a little less sincere, a little more forced, and Emma can only agree with the feeling – surely it mustn’t be easy, having one of your own ministers plotting against you so openly. The two women shake hands, and Emma tries to focus on them as much as possible. Until he’s standing right there, in front of her, and she can no longer ignore him without being rude, which she doesn’t want to do. Don’t show him your weaknesses, she scolds herself, don’t show him he’s having an effect on you.

So she smiles, too, and the curve of her lips matches thus of her mother as her eyes land on Killian once again.

“Your Highness,” he says, as he takes her hand the way he did her mother’s. “It truly is a pleasure to see you again.”

She very much doubts so, and forces herself not to snatch her hand back when he brushes his lips to the back of it – he isn’t supposed to touch her skin while doing so, and they both know it, so it annoys her even more so because of course he is trying to push her buttons. But two can play this game, after all.

“Killian,” is all she replies, drawling on the name to make it obvious she won’t use his title. This isn’t how he introduced himself to her, after all, and her stomach churns with the thought that it was on purpose, that he didn’t want her to know who he really was. Sick bastard.

It works like a charm, pride surging through her veins at the horror flashing in his eyes when he lets go of her hand and looks up to her. She caught him off-balance, and damn her if she isn’t going to be proud of that fact. She spares a quick glance to her mother, still deep in a stiff conversation with Zelena, before taking a step closer to Killian – his Adam’s apple bobs up and down at their proximity, and she relishes in the sudden tension of his body, the way his eyes seem to darken even so slightly.

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” she whispers only for him to hear. “You can try to take my crown all you want. After all, I like the challenge.”

She throws his words at his face like one would slap someone, and he reacts in equal measure, eyes widening in surprise, and maybe fear too. Still, Emma softens the blow with a smile as she takes a step back and out of his personal space. Her mother is staring at her now, worry in her green eyes, and Emma turns to face her and Zelena, bows as graciously as she was taught.

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Lady Zelena. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be late to another appointment.”

There is no appointment to speak of, but neither of them know that, so she offers them another smile (pretends not to see her mother’s glare) before she turns around and leaves the main hall. “Oh, no, she was charming,” she hears Killian reply to her mother’s whispered question – his voice is a little too sincere for her liking, and Emma elects to ignore her. As she ignores Leroy’s shit-eating grin.

(Killian, zero. Emma, one.)

 

…

 

She learns quickly enough (read: in the next few hours) to avoid Killian Jones like the plague, and not once does she meet him in the hallways that day. Belle tells her they gave him a bedroom in the guest aisle, away from her own quarters, so it limits the number of times she can walk past him as she heads for her room. But, mostly, she busies herself with menial tasks, so she has a reason to stay in the library or in her mother’s office at all times. If her mother notices, and of course she does, she doesn’t comment – they both know Emma’s thoughts on the subject, after all, and nothing in this stupid plan of theirs was said about bonding time with the would-be king. So avoid him she does, even at dinner that night, as she decides to eat in her bedroom, claiming to need some alone time to catch up on some reading.

(And if she spends her evening eating grilled cheese and watching Netflix, well, no one has to know.)

It takes her some time the next morning, mind clouded with sleep, to remember that it is indeed her life now, that she has to play that masquerade for the next few weeks. She wants to give up already, but it would mean giving up the throne too and – no, not going to happen. She’s worked too hard on herself to be where she is today, she won’t give the crown to the first clown asking for it. Still, her new schedule involves a great many deals of asking the employees where Killian is, and she knows they will tire of it before she does – the last thing she wants is to be that kind of boss, thank you very much. That kind of queen too, the one who doesn’t have any consideration for her subjects and only thinks about herself.

Doesn’t mean she’ll be happy about it, she thinks grimly as she lets Grace braid her hair for the day and pick an outfit for her.

It’s with that grumpy state of mind that she goes to the kitchens for a much-deserved breakfast, and she almost laughs at the cook’s face matching her own scowl.

“Bad day?” she asks as he puts a mug of hot chocolate in front of her, with extra whipped cream and cinnamon.

He hesitates, if only for a second, before confessing to her. “Lord Jones kicked me out of the kitchens earlier today. Can you believe it?”

Emma almost chokes on her drink, startled by the words and the strength with which the cook drops her plate of waffles in front of her. “What happened?” she asks, the words hoarse and hurried in her mouth.”

“He’s a damn peacock, is what happened. Wanted to brag to your mother, cook her some omelette by himself. Left us with all the dishes to clean, of course…”

“He cooked breakfast for the queen?”

The cook grumbles some kind of reply as he throws his arms in the air, the image of dejection, before he goes back to his cooking and let her go back to her eating. Which she does, albeit warily, as she ponders on the story she was just offered.

Of course he would try to score points with the queen, if he can’t do it with the princess, and of course he would do so in the most gentlemanly ways possible as to show his good faith and charming self – everything not to be painted as the bad guy in this story, everything to gain the queen’s approval. Emma hates herself for agreeing that it is, indeed, as brilliant as ideas get and that she would probably have done the same, were she in his place. (Or maybe not, knowing her. She isn’t all that good at appearing likable to people she thinks don’t deserve her respect, or even her attention, after all.) Still, it leaves a sour taste in her mouth, ruining her breakfast for her – she still eats it, if only to have something in her stomach until lunch, and hopes her appetite will have made a comeback then.

When she leaves the kitchens, it’s with warm thanks for the cook’s skills and a smile at the way his cheeks redden at the praise. She has nothing to do today, and wonders of the activities she could do to keep herself busy – she keeps postponing the moment she will call Ariel to plan an outing, if only because she isn’t ready to discuss what is happening in her life with the redhead quite yet. Ariel has that way about her, to twist every fact into some grant, epic love story, and Emma isn’t in the mood for that kind of things.

She’s listing the pros and cons of a day spent in their library – she can’t remember the last time she read a book because she wanted to and not because it was part of a syllabus – when she hears heavy footsteps coming her way. Emma turns around to find Peter, one of her guards, walking towards her. It is obvious, from his quick steps and laboured breaths, that he was running and only slowed down for her sake, and her smile is amused at that thought as she greets him.

His entire face is red with a blush as he bows to her, and Emma knows him enough to guess she wasn’t the one to trigger such a reaction under his skin. “A guest just arrived, Your Highness. She didn’t announce herself, said she wants to see you and only you.”

“And you let that person _enter_?”

They made sure the staff knew of what is going on within the walls of the palace, if only for them to keep an eye on Killian Jones at all times, and so Emma wasn’t surprised when the security measures tightened, just in case. So for Peter who, as far as Emma knows, has always done a flawless job, to let a stranger enter the castle unchecked? It is nothing but madness.

She hurries to the main hall, the guard following her close, as panic settles deep within her bones. Logically, she is aware she is running towards potential danger, but damn her if she isn’t going to check that threat by herself, to see that stranger with her own eyes. So her breathing is laboured too when she finally reaches her destination, and she lets a whooshing sigh when her eyes finds the woman standing in the middle of the room.

“Surprise, bitch!” Ruby yells as she lets go of the handles of her suitcases.

Emma can only gape at her because – yeah, _bitch_ seems like an appropriate term, all of a sudden. She turns back to Peter, who looks sheepish enough because of course the guy knows who Ruby is, the guy has had the biggest crush ever since the moment Ruby stepped into the palace for the first time. She can’t believe Ruby forced him to lie to her, but it is such a Ruby thing to do, too, than Emma isn’t even surprised.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Emma says as she surges forwards and captures her best friend in a much-needed hug.

Ruby was only supposed to arrive in two weeks, what with packing her own stuff to move all the way to Eala, thus why Emma didn’t expect her so soon. Not that she’s going to complain about it, of course – those are the kind of surprises she enjoy, after all.

“Belle called yesterday, she’d booked a plane for me and everything. Some kind of emergency?”

Bless this woman. Bless her soul. Emma sighs in relief as she tightens her hold around Ruby, and her best friend responds to the hug in equal measures. Everything will be all right. If Ruby is here, everything will be all right, because the brunette will help her through whatever headache thrown her way in the next few weeks.

She breaks away from the hug after long seconds, and stares right into Ruby’s eyes. “I’m getting married.”

“Who to?”

“That’s the problem, I don’t know yet.”

If it fazes Ruby, she doesn’t show it, and Emma wonders if it was that obvious and she was that blind, if she was always meant to choose her husband instead of letting fate do the job of her. Which, all things considered now, was probably the case, and she wants to facepalm at her own naivety.

Ruby’s eyes leave her face at that moment, settling on a point above Emma’s shoulder as her mouth opens even so slightly. “And who’s _that_?”

She doesn’t need to turn around to know who Ruby is talking about, but she does it anyway, and so isn’t surprised when she finds Killian standing by the other side of the hall, shoulder leaning against a doorframe as he watches both women with something akin to curiosity in his eyes.

“He’s the reason I’m getting married.”

_That_ gets a reaction from Ruby, as her eyes travel from Emma to Killian and back again, a frown marring her forehead as she tries, and fails, to make sense of the situation.

“Geez, you haven’t even been here for a week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're willing to drop a review, please consider telling me what you thought of that chapter instead of demanding the next one already. Nothing more depressing for a writer than a "more!" or "update soon!" without a kind word about what you just read.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the husband!

The council room has been, quite honestly, turned into a war room. Emma isn’t used to spending time within those four walls, not yet at least, and she feels oppressed in that room, files scattered on every table and plane surface. (The number of magazines for white dresses and flowers is quite alarming if she says so herself.) She sits in one of the padded chair, arms folded on the table and chin resting on top of them, while Ruby idly plays with her hair, braiding the long blond strands over and over again. Emma has never been more thankful for her best friend’s presence by her side, especially with the way her mother keeps pacing by the other side of the room, one hand on her chest and the other on her cheek – the penchant for theatrics, as it turns out, is genetic.

“How about Roland?” Emma asks without sitting straighter or even raising her head. “He’d be okay with it.”

The queen stops in her tracks, offers her a look halfway between bewilderment and amusement. “Yes, because _that_ is the answer to our problem.”

Emma simply shrugs in reply, pride surging through her veins at the smile on her mother’s lips even as she shakes her head at her antics. At least it had the benefit of easing some of the tension in the room.

That is, until Belle enters the room, quick apology on her lips and laptop tucked under her arm – she makes a beeline for the video projector system in a corner, plugging the computer to it and opening a powerpoint of some sort. Because yes there is a powerpoint. A powerpoint of all the potential future husbands.

Emma wants to disappear.

So she hides her head in her folded arms and ignores the way Ruby chuckles softly as she tugs on her braids, or ever the lights dimming above her. She would find it hilarious, how serious they all are on the subject, weren’t she in the situation she finds herself in. It is hard to find the positive side of things when your future – not to mention your heart – is on the line.

“What about Harry?” Ruby asks all of a sudden, as if she has finally caught up with the subject. “I mean, it’s not William but you could do with some redhead genes in the family.”

Emma groans and puts her arms above her head, forehead pressed to the cold wood of the table. She doesn’t look up, but knows her mother’s disapproving tsk is enough of an answer to Ruby’s colourful proposition. Which is of course followed by more serious proposition as Belle starts going through her powerpoint when she comes to sit with the rest of them around the table, little remote control in hand to go through the different slides of her powerpoint.

Emma finally raises her head.

Many of the first faces and names are familiar, and she soon recognizes them as lords from Eala – nothing like pure Ealan blood, she guesses. But, since she knows them, it also means she disregards them immediately. If none of them have struck her fancy so far, she knows they never will, and the last thing Emma wants is a husband she will barely tolerate. Still, she laughs when Eric’s bright smile appears on one of the slides, and tells Belle that this one particular lord won’t remain a bachelor for long.

There is a shift in her possible suitors then, as they switch from Eala to the rest of Europe. Some names sound familiar – and that’s an unequivocal no for Hans and each one of his brothers – and some faces are too, people she met during galas and parties, people she knows through other people, be it someone’s brother, someone’s cousin. But there always is one detail that doesn’t sit well with Emma, or with her mother, and soon half an hour has past without them agreeing on anyone.

Emma begins to lose hope of ever finding a match.

“What about him?” Ruby asks after a while, pointing to the screen.

The man looks cute, if not handsome. Not really Emma’s type, but she guesses it’s not what’s supposed to matter anyway. The text next to his picture identifies him as Walsh Omaha. He comes from an old Welsh family, likes magic tricks and restoring furniture (it all reads like a bad dating website, but she’s past that already) and the first word that pops into Emma’s head is ‘nerd’. Not that she minds. Just not as the husband of a queen, maybe.

“He’s known to have ties with Lady Zelena,” Leroy says from his place in the corner of the room.

Emma doesn’t ask how he knows that, because it is obvious he had a thorough background check made for both Zelena and Killian. Instead she says, “That’s a big no, then,” and watches as Belle moves on to the next slide.

And the next. And the next one after that.

Emma sighs as she folds her arms on the table once more and props her chin on top of them, trying but mostly failing to hide her boredom. She feels Ruby’s fingers in her hair again, pulling the locks into braids, and knows her best friend shares her state of mind in that moment. It doesn’t reassure her at all, but she still listens to the adults’ conversations anyway.

“Jefferson Hatter?”

“No, too much of a reliability.”

“August Booth.

“Money problems, we can’t have a prince with debts.”

“William Scarlett.”

“No, no, _no_.” Emma looks up to her mother at the irritation in her voice. Her lips are drawn into a pout and a frown etches her brows. “We need a man with a good education and manners. No bad reputation or hobbies, no temper. Someone handsome and polite, with charm and little to no ego. Someone…”

Emma is about to tell her Prince Charming is just a stuff of fairy tales, but Ruby quickly adds, “Someone like him,” and they all turn to the screen in one motion.

Graham Humbert, Duke of North Down, the slide reads. The Queen leans with her arms folded on the back of a chair, her eyes never leaving the screen. “Someone exactly like him.”

Emma stares at the picture for far too long, head tilting to the side as she loses herself in her thoughts. He is handsome and his eyes are kind, his lineage good, his education better. The ghost of a smile curls her lips when she realises she’s thinking of him like one would do a dog or a horse, and she finally meets her mother’s eyes across the table.

All she needs in a nod to set things into motions.

 

…

 

She sits in front of her computer, and it would be lying to say she isn’t staring at the image of herself on the screen. Her webcam isn’t the best there is, and the colours are a little off and – Emma fights against the flutter of her heart, the ice in her veins as she tugs a strand of hair behind her ear for what feels like the hundredth time.

She and Ruby used to skype all the time when they were in college, because it was easier than a phone call, so she isn’t unfamiliar with those moments, sitting at her desk in front of her laptop.

What she is unfamiliar with, though, is for it to be with her potential future husband. It feels a lot like a blind date wrapped in a job interview wrapped in a video call and – not the best feeling in the world, if she’s being honest. They have talked by emails, a bit, but it was mostly to agree on a date for what they’re about to do right now and…

She’s nervous, okay?

And that nervousness grows exponentially when her laptop starts chiming with the familiar little jingle, startling her and sending her heart racing. She sits straighter and forces a smile on her lips after a deep sigh, before she hits the green button.

His face immediately appears on her screen, all brown curls and nice scruff and kind eyes and. Yes. He will do. Because there is softness in those eyes, in the every feature of his face, softness that speaks of kindness and selflessness and a long list of words ending in ‘ness’ that tells Emma he might be exactly who she’s looking for.

“Happy with what you’re seeing, Your Highness?”

Her cheeks turn a deep shade of crimson when she realises she indeed has been staring at him without uttering a single word. The accent, thick and warm in its Irishness, doesn’t help matter either. Thankfully, his voice is more amused than anything else, if not slightly teasing, and he looks as bashful and overwhelmed as she feels.

Emma clears her throat as she remembers her manners. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. It’s nice finally meeting you, Lord Humbert.”

“It is an honour, Your Highness. But please, do call me Graham. Lord Humbert is my father.”

She doesn’t know what urges her to reply, “Only if you call me Emma,” because it breaks at least two dozens different rules in the book of etiquette and good manners. But she does. And Graham looks surprised, and maybe a little terrified, for a second there.

Still, he manages to swallow it down behind a smile. “I guess it could be a good idea, if we are to go through with our deal.”

His words are like a cold shower for her, a not-so-friendly reminder of the order of business of the day. So she nods, once, as she sits a little straighter and tries to remember the list of question her mother and she had worked on earlier that day.

“Right. So you’ve studied environmental law at Cambridge, haven’t you?”

Speaking to Graham turns out to be easier than she could have ever imagined. Not only is he clever – the law degree isn’t just for decoration, after all – but he is funny too, his jokes the kind of terrible that becomes hilarious after a while. They – they just click, somehow, and Emma finds herself leaning on her elbow and closer to her laptop as he tells her some story about his hometown, a little village lost on the coast of Northern Ireland. She tells him of her college years, and even her time in Boston, before she became a princess, and finds it easy to do so – easy to talk to him, to share memories and smiles and to tease him a bit too. (His red cheeks are far too endearing not to.)

It is only when her mother enters the room, a silent question in the arc of her eyebrow, that Emma finally realises they’ve been talking for more than two hours now. And it only felt like ten minutes. So she gives Mary Margaret a thumbs up, one that doesn’t get caught by her camera. Still, Graham must notice the way her eyes leave the screen for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, if the way he awkwardly coughs is anything to go by.

She looks back to him. “I must go now, but it was a pleasure making your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Emma. I’ll talk to you soon, I hope?”

“That you will.”

She feels her mother’s eyes, heavy with things unsaid, on her as she closes her laptop and stands up. When she looks to the queen at last, she’s surprised by the amusement she reads in her green eyes.

“’Emma’, huh?”

An impish smile makes its way to her lips, and she avoids her mother’s gaze as she leaves the room – her cheeks are definitely pink with embarrassment, but she decides to ignore this reaction from her traitor of a body.

“He will do,” is all she says, and she sweats she hears her mother chuckling under her breath.

 

…

 

She stands at the bottom of the stairs leading to the palace, her mother to her side, as she watches the black car driving toward them. It feels so real, all of a sudden, that her heart can only race at such a sight, at everything that will come with the man sitting in the car. It is real now, he is here, and it feels too much too soon – everything about her life is too much too soon, if she’s being honest, yet she will probably never get used to such a feeling.

She discreetly wipes her hands on the skirt of her dress, pretending to get rid of a crease instead of just drying her sweaty palms. There is a knot in her throat and one in her stomach, and she swears her heart stops beating altogether when the car stops in front of them.

A valet opens its door immediately, and here comes Graham in all his curly-hair-kind-smile glory, looking sharp in a black suit. His eyes find hers in a heartbeat, smile widening at the sight of her, and Emma can only mirror his grin, not without her tongue darting to her upper lip first. Damn.

(It is a good thing that Ruby is somewhere inside and not next to her, because Emma has a feeling her best friend would be whistling in appreciation. And she would share the thought.)

Graham stops in front of her mother first, gives her a bow and a smile. “It is a pleasure making your acquaintance, Your Majesty. I thank you for inviting me to the royal palace.”

The queen, unsurprisingly, is won over. But then again, who wouldn’t be? “We are glad you accepted our offer, Lord Humbert, especially on such short notice. Consider yourself at home.”

He nods and smiles once more, before he turns to Emma. His hand is warm and strong when he takes hers, and she has to bite down a goofy grin as he kisses the back of it. “And it is a pleasure finally seeing you in real life, Your Highness.”

“The feeling is mutual,” she replies, and promptly congratulates herself for not tripping on her words.

(She sees a flash out of the corner of her eyes, and suddenly remembers the official photographer is here. Because of course they need to immortalize such a moment, for the pictures to be in all the newspapers, not to mention the gossip magazines, once they make their engagement official.)

(Her life, really…)

“We will meet for tea in the gardens later,” the queen says. “Emma will show you around the castle in the meantime.”

And then she’s gone, and Emma feels equally lost and nervous all of a sudden. She knows him, has talked to him all through the week since their first afternoon on Skype. But having him in front of her is different, and she feels shy and awkward all of a sudden, like a teenager girl on her first date.

Emma swallows the knot in her throat, and nods. “Follow me, then.”

She shows him to his quarters first, down the halls to hers, then to the kitchens, the main living room, the library. Ruby shows up halfway through the visit, pretending she didn’t expect to find them there, and Emma rolls her eyes at her antics. Graham takes it all in stride though, like the gentleman he is.

He tells them of this wolves sanctuary he visited in the South of France as they make their way to the gardens for the tea party her mother told them about. Ruby is enraptured by it of course, as always when wild animals are involved, but something catches Emma’s attention from the corner of her eye.

When she turns her head, it’s to find Killian leaning in a doorway and staring at them. He arches an eyebrow when their eyes meet, his fleeting to Graham for a second before focusing back on Emma. She can’t help it – she smirks at him, not even trying to conceal the sweet taste of victory from her features. A frown appears on her enemy’s forehead, and she’s all too happy to link her arm with Graham’s and see how the other man literally starts pouting at such a sight. Good. Let him see he lost the battle here.

She looks up to Graham then, and he down to their linked arms, a sincere smile blossoming on his mouth. Her heart churns at that. It was far from a love-at-first-sight scenario, not that she expected it to be any different, but – but she could learn to love him. She can see herself falling in love with him, if she’s given the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're willing to drop a review, please consider telling me what you thought of that chapter instead of demanding the next one already. Nothing more depressing for a writer than a "more!" or "update soon!" without a kind word about what you just read.


	7. Chapter 7

The Queen of Eala may be many things, but subtle she is not. Emma notices right away that her mother cleared her schedule for the duration of Graham’s visit at the castle – an entire two weeks as of now, more if they get engaged – so that she can get to know him without her duties as a princess coming in the way. She guesses it is supposed to be a sweet gesture, and so tries not to write it off as Mary Margaret playing matchmaker.

Which would be stupid anyway.

Everything about this situation is matchmaking.

Emma is a little disappointed her visit to the orphanage was cancelled – she actually was looking up to it, to meeting those kids she understands so well. Even more so when Belle has a variety of events and dates planned for her and Graham. It is not as annoying as Emma thought it would be, mostly because Graham is as charming as they come, but it gets exhausting after a while and she doesn’t know how to make it stop.

Her last relationship was when she was still a teenager, and ended the moment Mary Margaret entered in her life. Everything else from there was the odd one-time date or random hook-up at college parties when she was a little too drunk to care. Emma doesn’t believe herself to be relationship material, far from it, and playing pretend with a man she picked out of a catalogue like some kind of build-a-husband game… Well, let’s just say it doesn’t make for the most romantic mood.

Graham is as lovely and perfect as he was when they were talking online not days ago – it comes from a place of sincerity, like he isn’t even trying to be a gentleman because it’s just the way he is – and Emma can see him as a great prince consort one day. Perhaps it is all that matters, all things considered. Perhaps she will grow to love him, with time, even if she can’t see herself being in love with him. She can’t quite explain why, but the feelings are not right, not there.

Emma doesn’t believe in love at first time, but she also knows that she can’t force herself to fall in love with the snap of her fingers. She is fond of Graham, no doubt there, but she has a hard time picturing him as anything but a close friend. She looks at him, and remembers the way her mother was around Lancelot – sweet but not loving, close but not passionate, not an ounce of chemistry in sight.

A simple future, but Emma has never loved simplicity.

She forces herself to soldier on, though, even more so when she meets Killian in the hallways of the castle – it doesn’t happen often, but he always has that smirk on his lips that tells Emma is wasn’t an accident either. Or perhaps the smirk is because he knows, knows as well as she does that her heart is not in it. If he hopes for her to give up, he is in here for a ride, because her heart has never ruled her mind. Far from it.

 

…

 

Emma has a habit of going jogging every evening, just before diner. It’s something she and Ruby started doing when they were teenagers and wanted to be in shape. Ruby gave up in college, but Emma never stopped. It exhaustes her just enough to fall asleep peacefully at night, and she loves those moments alone, just her and Ava and her music. It is even more enjoyable now that she has the castle’s grounds and not Boston’s streets.

Graham sees her getting ready for her run on the evening on his first day, one hand on the wall of the castle as she grabs her foot behind her to stretch her muscles, her dog yapping happily next to her. He raises an amused eyebrow at the sight, and simply asks if she would like him to join her the follow day.

She sees no reason as to say no, so she obviously says yes.

She bursts into laughter the following night. It takes her five minutes of jogging by his side before she stops, trying hard to swallow down the chuckle rising in her throat. But Graham stops next to her, a silent question in his eyes, and Ava takes that moment to attack his shoelaces, and Emma loses it.

“Look at us,” she says after a while, when her laughter has finally died down and tears pearl at the corner of her eyes. “Mister and the Missus and their freaking dog, jogging together.”

His lips curl into a grin, too. “How very American suburbia of us.”

Emma is that close to laughing again. “Good. We could talk about the next book club while we’re at it.”

Graham rolls his eyes good-naturally, before he nods towards the track. With a nod of her own, Emma picks up her speed, and it takes him two long strides to be at her side again. He quips about picking the kids from football practice (“or is it _soccer_?”) and she nudges his shoulder with a shake of the head. The banter is easy with him, and it reminds Emma of the way she acts with Ruby more than anything else – first clue as to why she will never fall in love with him, perhaps, because she compares him to her best friend slash almost sister.

At least he makes for good company, never trying to outrun her, unlike the guys she shares the campus’s running track with. He doesn’t seem like the competitive kind, even if Emma knows he could easily run faster than her if he put his mind to it. But he seems comfortable enough adjusting to her speed, laughing and joking with her as they run around the park while the sun begins to set in the horizon.

The following night he is waiting for her outside when she goes out for her daily run, and Emma simply grin as she begins stretching.

 

…

 

They meet with Emma’s friend on the third day which, according to Ruby, is a “make it or break it” kind of deal. Mainly because anyone who can handle Ariel for more than half an hour, without wanting to commit suicide or murder or both, is worthy of being Emma’s husband – something about having the patience and compassion of a saint, still according to Ruby. Emma rolls her eyes at that, because Ariel may be a piece of cake but she is not a monster either, but then again she remembers how unsettling meeting the little redhead had been. Maybe Ruby has a point.

But, of course, Graham fits right in with their little group, charming with all the ladies and friendly with Eric, who asks for nothing else but to no longer be the only man of the group. They spend some time in one of Mist Haven’s coffee shops, since a bunch of paparazzi have set camp in the capitol and showing Graham around may not be bad press. Emma feels like she is showing her shiny new toy to the world. Graham is embarrassed, but takes it well enough.

Conversation come easy to them – but then again it always does when Emma meets with her friends, even more so when Ariel and Ruby gossip away while everyone else take a step back and listen. They are in the middle of a heated discussion about some award show or another when Graham raises his arm to put it on the back of Emma’s chair, fingers idly playing with a strand of hair. He mouth ‘journalists’ to her with a tiny nod toward the large bay window, and she smiles at him, a little unsettled. He does it so flawlessly, fitting in and acting the part, like he has absolutely no problem being the trophy husband.

And perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps he knows as well as she does that theirs will be as arranged as marriages can get, and so he doesn’t expect anything from Emma but her friendship and respect – both of which she would give him without second thought. It is a relief, to know they seem to be on the same page on this subject, to think that she will not force him into that relationship while he has unrequited feelings about her.

They can pull it off, they actually can.

It goes easier from there.

Emma starts treating Graham the way she would do any other friend, and they settle into a relationship of sorts, one that involves a lot of very bad jokes (Graham) and very inappropriate quips (Emma). On one particularly lazy morning, they even throw themselves into a conversation about the names of their future children, agreeing on not naming them after their grandparents and disagreeing on names from books characters. Emma insists Ginevra would be a lovely name for a princess. Graham throws a grape at her face.

They spend a day at the beach, wind messing with their hair and sand between their toes as they share sandwiches and he threatens to throw her in the sea if she doesn’t stop stealing his bottle of water. She pokes her tongue out at him before taking a large gulp, raising her eyebrows in challenge. It’s the picture on the front page of the national paper the following morning – Emma tucked under Graham’s arm, kicking and screaming and laughing, mere seconds before he throws her in the water. The picture comes with some sappy title about a fairytale courtship, and Belle coos over the newspaper for longer than is necessary or appropriate.

 

…

 

Emma knows what Graham is up to the moment he shoos the security team away. They are in the middle of Mist Haven’s larger park, the laughter of children and songs of birds as background noise, large trees shading them from the unforgiving sun. It’s a lovely, if a little hot, afternoon, and they decided to leave the castle’s grounds after many days spent in the gardens.

Emma spotted the paparazzi the moment they stepped out of the car, and she knows Graham did too. Knows he feels their eyes and cameras on them when he invites her to sit on a bench next to the central fountain. It makes for a beautiful setting, and Emma can already hear Belle’s sighs of delight from there.

Graham takes her hand, thumb brushing against her knuckles with all the gentleness that characterizes him. Even if Emma knows everything about that moment is fake and rehearsed, her heart races a little faster because _this is it_.

“Those few weeks in your company have been really nice, Emma, and I know you agree.” She nods in confirmation, but lets him go on. “I am really flattered that you picked me, even more so that you seem to like me. This relationship is a little unconventional, but I wanted to do this particular part properly so…”

He puts his hand in his pocket, only to grab a red velvet box and – _this is it_ – smiles softly at her when he opens it. A ring lays in it, breathtaking in its simplicity, a plain gold band with a small diamond. Discreet and beautiful, exactly the type Emma loves.

“This ring has been in my family for decades. Would you accept to wear it now? Would you be my wife?”

Emma bites down on her bottom lip not to grin like a fool, because this is so very sweet of him and she is so very glad she found him – so very glad it is him, even in an arranged and loveless marriage. So she nods, and holds her hand up to him.

“Yes. Yes, Graham, I will be your wife.”

He grins too as he slips the ring down her finger, then leans forwards to capture her lips in the gentler of kisses. She doesn’t see fireworks behind her closed lids and doesn’t feel a shiver run down her spine, but it doesn’t really matter.

 

…

 

“Okay but real talk, though.”

Ruby lies on her belly on Emma’s bed, hugging a pillow in front of her as her legs kicks into the air. It feels a little like those slumber parties they used to throw when they were teenagers, talking about school and boys and Orlando Bloom. Emma rolls her eyes at the thought before looking up to her friend from where she sits on the floor, back against the bed.

“Have you guys talked about extramarital relationships?”

Emma snorts through her nose, suddenly glad she isn’t munching on some of the popcorn the cooks prepared for them earlier. She would have choked on it, no question asked. “What the fuck, Rubs?”

Ruby laughs, that high-pitched chuckle of hers that makes her sound like a Scooby-Doo villain. She hugs the pillow a little more tightly to her chest as she rolls around on the mattress, head falling down the side of the bed.

“Well, he’s obviously your Diana, so you’re allowed to have a Camilla too. Right?”

Emma raises her hand to press it against Ruby’s cheek so she can push the brunette’s face away. Only Ruby would be so blunt as to ask about Emma cheating on her husband before she even is married. This is ridiculous, seriously, and Emma wonders how she hadn’t seen it coming, because it sure is the kind of topic her best friend would have no issue broaching.

Her ring sparkles in the bedside lamp’s soft light as she lightly taps the side of Ruby’s face, and a weight plummets in Emma’s stomach. She doesn’t regret getting engaged to Graham, far from it – she chose him for that exact purpose, after all, and she cares about her crown and her country too much to give up now. But Ruby’s question has her thinking, thoughts she would rather keep at bay instead of dwelling on them for far too long. She will be happy with Graham. Her country will be happy. It’s all that matters.

“I’m not going to cheat on him. Geez, Ruby, what the fuck?”

Ruby shrugs unapologetically, which is a very Ruby thing to do. She has never been one to shy away from a tricky conversation, and her honesty is something Emma loves about her – a little rough around the edges, perhaps, but at least she doesn’t hide behind pretences and half-lies when she has something to say. And, right now, all Emma needs is some good old bluntness.

“Come on, seriously, Ems. You telling me you’re seeing yourself have some wild kinky sex with Prince Charming there?”

She doesn’t seem herself having sex with Graham, period. Yes, he is attractive and yes, he gives the vibes of a guy who would leave her satisfied but… The appeal is not there, first and foremost. And Ruby is right, Emma can’t see Graham as a good fuck. He’s the kind of man who _makes loves_ , like women are precious creatures to be worshipped. Which, nice, but not really up Emma’s alley.

(They’ll have to, because she needs heirs, and that thought alone brings a shiver down her spine. Worse than having sex with a guy you’re not attracted to is having sex for the duty of popping children.)

Her thoughts must be written all over her face – she’s wrinkling her nose, which is enough clue for Ruby to read her on that one. The brunette laughs once more, before grabbing a handful of popcorn that she shoves into her mouth without an ounce of elegance.

“Talk to him about it. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” Ruby purses her lips, before she adds, “You could get kinky with Lord Doucheface.”

“Ew, Ruby, no!”

There is no way in hell Emma even gets near that moron if given the choice – she actually can’t wait for him to leave the castle’s grounds, can’t wait to get rid of him sooner rather than later. And sooner will come in a couple of days, she muses as she stretches her hand in front of her so the light reflects off the diamond of her ring. As soon as the royal engagement is announced to the world, she’ll kick Killian’s ass out of the palace and be done with it.

“I can’t wait to rub it in his face. All fifteen carats of it.”

“Sounds painful.”

The girls share a glance then, from the corner of their eyes, before bursting into laughter together. Emma tries to swallow it down at first, but Ruby’s laugh is infectious and the bedroom is soon filled with their loud laughs – a little nervous from Emma’s part, but it feels good to finally let go of the pressure that was weighting down on her shoulders. It feels good to finally be able to breathe without the looming threat of her crown being taken from her.

“Oh, oh!” Ruby adds excitingly as she turns around on her belly once more, closer to Emma’s head. “We could have auditions for your toy boy like we did Graham. Eala’s Next Royal Lover, or something.”

Emma hugs her knees to her chest then, just so she can hide her face in the circle of her arms and laugh even louder. This is ridiculous. Everything about it is ridiculous, from talking baby names with Graham to talking potential lovers with Ruby to actually getting married, something she’d sworn off at sixteen, just so she can become the queen of a country she didn’t care about until a few years ago. Yes, everything about Emma’s life feels like one big joke right now, so she feels like she has the right to lose it a little, if only for one night. One night to laugh about it with Ruby, one night to be Emma-from-Boston and not Emma-the-princess. She deserves it.

So she turns her head to look Ruby in the eyes and asks, “What are our criteria, though?” and lets Ruby do all the crazy talking.


	8. Chapter 8

The official announcement is made the following morning in the papers.

The unofficial announcement is made the following afternoon on Emma’s Instagram account. It’s a simple picture, really, just a portrait of Graham in the garden, sunglasses on his nose and glass of iced tea in his hand. Emma isn’t even with him in the picture, and she doesn’t add a caption, but it makes thousands of notes in a matter of seconds. Ruby laughs out loud, even more so when Graham’s ears turn a nice shade of red, and Emma receives a text from Ariel that is nothing but ten lines of excited emojis.

The official engagement pictures, the one they will release in the press, will be made in two week’s time – just enough time for Graham to go back to Northern Ireland so he can take care of his propriety and pack his life to move in Eala, permanently. It’s as weird as thoughts go, especially since Emma still isn’t used to the idea of living in a castle for the rest of her life, let alone live with her future husband. But she still feels a pan of sadness when Graham climbs into the car that will drive him to the airport.

They’ve been glued to each other for the past couple of weeks, and it feels strange to let him go, even for five days.

What feels even stranger, though, is going back to her responsibilities now that her lady mother no longer is cutting her some slack. Gone is the wooing period and back are her duties as the future leader of this little country, so Emma finds herself attending meetings with the Ministers on various subjects, as well as tagging along with her mother to this or that outing.

She feels jealous every evening, when Ruby comes back from spending hours in town or at the beach, her skin turning a pretty shade darker with each passing day. She sports huge sunglasses and a soft skirt over her bikini, where Emma is stuck in her professional clothes, and it’s hard not to feel envious of her best friend’s freedom sometimes.

Not that she regrets the sacrifices she has to make for her crown – far from it – but her determination crumbles a little when she sees how sunny and warm it is outside while she has to go through next year’s budget with her Ministers and her mother. Her mind wanders more often than not, and Graham’s sparse texts never fail to bring a smile to her lips in those moments. (It would be lying to say that the picture he sends her, rain over Irish lands, doesn’t make her feel slightly better.)

She manages to take a break in between meetings on the fourth day after Graham has left, and it’s hard not to make a run for it and lock herself in her bedroom for a well-deserved nap. Instead, she grabs a book – an old version of Peter Pan, with the spine broken – and settles on the steps of the grand staircase with Ava by her feet and a cup of tea. She has an hour or so before Anton comes in to discuss agriculture, and she intends on enjoying every second of it.

Which, of course, means Killian finds her in a tick.

He still hasn’t left the castle, something about wanting to be in the front line of the wedding preparation. It’s a pile of bullshit to Emma, really, but she can’t do much about it – she does have a track record of chickening out of life-changing events, after all. Still, she had gotten used not to see him, and his popping out of nowhere when all she wants is peace, it’s annoying to say the least.

He whistles softly, strutting in with his hands in his pockets like he simply belongs there, and it takes all of Emma’s patience and diplomatic skills not to throw the book at his face on the spot. He deserves it. Seriously, no one is allowed to look this smug when they’re supposed to be losing – like he knows she will not agree to the marriage and he will get the crown in the end. Which, clearly not happening.

At that thought, Emma’s eyes fall to the ring on her hand, the heaviness of it still foreign around her finger. She has never been one for jewellery, beside her simple earrings and the round pendant Granny had offered her for her sixteenth birthday, and it sometimes startles her to see the glim of the ring from the corner of her eye. As with many other things, she will just have to get used to it.

“Having seconds thoughts already?”

She raises her head to glare at Killian. He’s standing a few steps below her, leaning against the banister with the smirk of the cat that ate the canary. Emma is having second thoughts about book-throwing competitions. She settles for glaring at him, though, because the last thing she wants is a lecture from her mother for starting fights in staircases.

“Where is lover boy anyway? Scared him away?”

“No.” She huffs through her nose as she closes her book, then stands up to climb the stairs. “He went back to Ireland to pack his things.”

Killian exhales a little ‘ah’ even if she has no doubt he knew that already. It’s been four days, everybody knew that already. He’s just trying to rile her up, and it is _not_ working. So she doesn’t spare him a second glance as she climbs the stairs, determined to wait for her meeting in the office. It will make for a less peaceful setting, but it’s still better than his company.

It is, of course, asking too much of him, for Killian follows her up the stairs, keeping three steps between them even when she stops to glare at him. He smiles sweetly in reply, before following her once again when she resumes her climbing. Emma forces herself not to sigh, knowing all too well it would sound loud and desperate in her mouth, and instead squares her shoulders as she looks at him once more.

“Do you need something else?”

He shrugs, the picture of innocence, and stands in front of her once they are on top of the stairs, hands in his pockets as he bounces on his feet with a grin. It must be his attractive face, or something like this, the kind that works on all the women – Emma isn’t impressed. She rolls her eyes, already tired of his games. She’s developing a headache, even if he’s a pain in an entire different part of her anatomy.

“Am I wrong in believing you’re not so fond of me?”

The snort escapes her before she can swallow it down, as loud as it is unladylike. Her mother would scold her for it, were she here, but Emma forgets everything she learnt about manners all of a sudden because – this has to be the biggest joke of the century, if not millennium.

“You think?” she asks innocently, tilting her head to the side a little. She smiles, too, for further effect. “As it turns out, I’m _not so fond_ of liars and manipulators.”

Emma expects him to scoff, or even reply with a cutting remark of his own. She doesn’t expect him to clench his teeth so hard a muscle pops in his jaw, eyes hardening as he looks away from her. He looks pissed – no, _offended_. Which doesn’t make sense at all, because she is just stating facts, not insulting his family.

(Is it technically also _her_ family? This is confusing.)

“I didn’t lie,” he lies.

Emma scoffs, loud and cold, and doesn’t conceal the sneer that settles on her mouth as she glares at him. She is used to hypocrisy, as it comes along with the life she lives, but it doesn’t mean she has to like and accept in anyway.

“A lie of omission is still a lie, Lord Jones.”

“Oh, pardon me, Your Highness,” he replies with equal levels of condescension. “Should I bring in the entire family tree next time? Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son of…”

“ _Shut up_.”

Surprisingly, he does.

With a smirk at the corners of his mouth, of course, but he shuts up anyway and it leaves Emma so baffled than for a second she can only wonder how far up Aragorn’s tree he can go from memory. She shakes the thought away as soon as it forms in her mind, and steps closer to him so she can jab his chest with her finger.

“You’ve been lying to me since the moment we met and I will rejoice the day you leave this castle and never come back.”

Killian takes a step forwards. He doesn’t touch her, but he looms over her and into her personal space, close enough that it makes her uncomfortable. Emma forces herself not to take a step back, else he thinks he has the upper hand in this conversation. Which, he doesn’t. She has this under control.

“You have a thing about the truth, huh?”

It’s not as flippant as she expected it to be. Actually, it’s anything but – his eyes gazing into hers as if trying to read her soul, honest and curious. Like he cares. Like the answer is one he really wants to hear. That, more than anything, throws Emma off. She can deal with his smug grins and cheeky remarks; she can’t with his casual friendship and interest.

He’s the enemy.

Don’t you forget about it.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she replies, tone acerbic.

“Maybe you should give up then.” She didn’t think he could get any closer. She was wrong. “Us aristocrats, we’re not the most trustworthy people there is.”

“Oh, I’d noticed,” she smiles. “You’re a poster boy for that school of thought.”

And here it is again, the twitching muscle on his cheek, the darkness in his eyes. He’s a man who won’t take no for an answer and, were they not in the safety of her own castle, Emma would be scared of him. And she doesn’t scare easy. But there is this gleam in his eyes, the one that means he would cross a good bunch of lines, and then some, to get his own way.

(She’s met a few like him, knows to avoid them.)

“You won’t survive among us,” he whispers, brings a shiver down her spine.

“Is that a threat?”

“No.”

How can he get closer still? His breath fans over her mouth, hot and minty, speckles of grey dancing in his blue eyes. He’s handsome, in a cold, menacing way, and Emma knows better than to let his good looks affect her – it’s cheap, and easy.

“I could teach you, though. If you want.”

“Do you think me so naïve?”

“You’d be naïve not to accept.”

She scoffs – ‘how unladylike!’ her mother would stay – and shakes her head a little as she takes a step back and turns her entire body away from him, an obvious dismissal.

He might not be skilled in the arts of body language, for he immediately grabs her arm, fingers wrapped around her elbow, and tugs forcefully. She glares at him, hitting his chest with her free hand, but he only looks around them, as if searching for something – someone. Last thing she knows, Emma is shoved into a nearby closet, tickling light bulb dancing above their heads and drawing shadows on the shelves.

“ _What’s wrong with you?_ ”

The dim light only enhances his dark features – yes, definitely someone she wouldn’t wish to meet in a dark alley. He glares at her for a while, before taking a step forwards. Obviously a habit of his, the creep.

“You may think I’m the big bad wolf here, Emma, and I don’t blame you. But don’t pretend I’m the most dangerous enemy you’ll make.”

“Still sounds like a threat.”

He smiles – an actual, honest smile with dimples in his cheeks and joy in his eyes – and even chuckles a little. “Believe it or not, you’re safe with me.”

“Or not, then.”

Killian’s smile widens, his chuckle louder. “Fair enough.”

Emma gauges him for a moment, eyes traveling up and down his body before they jump from one eye to the other – as if it would help. It doesn’t, and so she considers the conversation over and makes for the closet’s door.

He stops her.

Because, of course he does.

His hand on her elbow once more, though barely a brush of his fingers against her skin this time. She could shrug him off easily but she doesn’t, instead turns towards him again with a raised eyebrow. It would be too much to ask for him not to invade her personal space this time but, oh well, he does it anyway.

“You can trust me, Emma.”

She stares. Shakes her head.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

He opens his mouth, shocked at first – offended, even, but it doesn’t make sense – then as if to say something. Not that he is given such a luxury.

The door opens, startling them both as natural light invades the small closet. A gasp, or perhaps even a shriek, escapes the maid’s lips as she stares at them both in horror, her eyes moving from Emma’s face to Killian’s to his hand still on her arm to their proximity.

_Fuck_.

“Oh god – oh – my – Your Highness.” She curtsies once, then a second time as she adds, “My Lord.”

Her cheeks are as red as Emma’s when she closes the door, her hurried footsteps echoing in the empty hallway as she literally runs away from the scene of the crime. Emma stares at Killian in horror, too, only for him to grin back. The bastard.

 

…

 

Her lady mother is furious.

Emma has seen her during meetings, both international and with her own government. Mary Margaret knows to keep her emotions in check when she needs to, knows to be as diplomatic and polite as it goes, even when she has to pass laws and enforce treaties. An iron fist in a velvet glove, ruthless but gentle.

She rarely gets pissed.

When she’s pissed, it’s after Emma.

Go figure.

She keeps pacing in front of Emma, all angry statements and large hand gestures, while Emma stares at her from her spot on the couch, head in her shoulders as she takes it all in. Technically, she knows her mother is overreacting – she and Killian were caught doing absolutely nothing by that one single maid. All the castle staff has to sign a non-disclosure agreement when they start working for the royal family. They’re safe. Nothing will end in the press.

Technically, yes.

The reality of facts, on the other hand…

“You’re engaged now so you will keep your indiscretions…”

Emma gapes at her. “ _Indiscretions_? What is that, a Jane Austen novel?”

Her mother finally stops her pacing, if only to stand in front of her, hands on her hips and angry pout on her lips, the spiting image of unamused. Emma usually knows better than to engage into a battle of wits with her mother, especially when the latter isn’t in a good mood. But the situation, while very unfair, calls for it – Emma hates being told off when she isn’t in the wrong.

Emma hates being told off by her mother.

“You’re an adult now. You have responsibilities, you can’t just act like a child…”

“I wasn’t!” See? Unfair. “We were talking in private and…”

“You were in a broom closet with a man who _isn’t_ your fiancé.”

Emma scoffs, loud and clear and so _unladylike_. Perhaps her mother is right, perhaps she is acting like a child but – she’s twenty-one, for fuck’s sake. She is allowed not to be perfectly proper at all times, least she goes crazy and murder the entire country.

“I’m married off for a country I didn’t care about until I was sixteen so excuse me if I fuck up!”

“You’re the future queen, you’re not allowed to fuck up!”

“What, like you fucked up when you had me?”

Emma regrets the words the moment they are out of her mouth – no way to take them back now that they are out in the open, years of resentment and hurt bursting out at the least appropriate times. Her mother looks like murder, her glare deadly and lips pressed into a thin line. She doesn’t say anything, and that’s the worst part – this silent fury of hers more potent than any backlash.

They stare at each other for long, interminable seconds, before the queen stands up with grace, brushing winkles away from her dress in the process. Emma opens her mouth weakly, but whatever apology or pitiful words she wants to form die on her tongue before she can even think them through, and so she can only stand up too, uselessly.

“You will review the Royal Guard in two weeks,” the queen tells her, her words clipped. “Belle will work you through the details.”

_Don’t disappoint me again_ is the comment she doesn’t add before she leaves the room. Emma gapes at the door as it closes behind her mother, her brain slow to take it all in. When it finally does, she falls back in the couch with a heartbreaking sigh.

The review of the Guard is on horseback.

“I don’t even know how to ride a horse,” she says out loud, more for her own sake than for Belle’s, still standing in a corner and looking as if she’s trying to blend into the wallpaper.

Emma can’t blame her.

When the older woman move, it’s not to sit next to Emma, even if she puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. Emma looks up to her, only to frown slightly at the look in the brunette’s eyes – mischief, so out-of-place after the conversation she and the queen shared.

“Don’t worry. I booked lessons with the best horse rider in the country.”

Yes, definitely mischief.


	9. Chapter 9

Emma sits on the sofa, legs bend beneath her and hot mug of tea between her hands. Its warmth is soothing, helping – even more so with the woman sitting in the armchair opposite her, legs perfectly crossed at the ankles and hands delicately resting on her lap. Emma has a hard time associating her, regal, graceful, out of his world, with a word so mundane and foreign as ‘mom’. Yet her mother she is, in all her royal glory, looking over her with kind yet curious eyes. The teenager feels awkward beneath such a gaze, shifting ever so slightly to show her unease.

Still she finds the courage to ask, even with a weak voice, “Tell me how you met.”

Mary Margaret nods solemnly at first, and Emma is coming to associate such a motion with her pondering on her words. When she begins to talk, her fingers are entwined, tightly enough for her knuckles to turn a light shade of white.

“For you to understand our story, you need to learn something else first. Eala’s lords are not always fond of the royal family. We have friends, of course, those loyal and devoted to us. We also have foes, people who barely hide the fact that they would like another family on the throne. Their family, more often than not. Lord Nolan falls into the second category.”

 _Nolan_ , Emma thinks, _his name is Nolan_.

And then, before she can stop herself: _Emma Nolan_.

She likes the sound of it.

“We were barely more than teenagers when your – your father and I met. Even if not entirely friendly, Lord Nolan had invited me to spend some days with them in their secondary house in the mountains. For skiing, of course, but mostly for pretending he was a friend to the crown, he accepted us as their rulers. My father the king was too busy to attend this little getaway so I went alone with the Nolans.”

Mary Margaret is no longer looking at her. Her eyes seem lost, far in the memories of a distant past, one she doesn’t seem to have visited in a very long time. Emma can’t find it in herself to be sorry about forcing her to relive the memories – she wants, needs to know; her origins, her story. Her father.

“Because of their political views, the Nolans rarely attended the official gathering at the castle. That’s why I’d never met your father before. But when we met, oh…” A smile, hesitant and small, blossoms on the queen’s lips. “We hit it off the moment we met. They’d call it love at first sight, I guess. We spent all our time at the chalet together, skiing, exploring, wandering. He showed me around, mostly, and we spent our evenings together, talking. It was charming, really.”

A smile appears on Emma’s lips as she listens to the tale, one she’s swift to hide by taking a sip of her tea. No matter how romantic the story is, she refuses to give the queen even an ounce of sympathy and compassion.

“We – well, let’s just say we didn’t just talk during the nights… That’s how you happened, obviously. But it was only two weeks, and then I was back to the castle and to my responsibilities as a princess.”

Mary Margaret stops then, if only to take a sip of her own beverage, before she puts the mug back on the coffee table. As she ponders on the queen’s words, Emma frowns lightly. The story is too good to be true so far, so she knows there must be a breaking point. And it happens in the following seconds.

“Lord Nolan wasn’t too pleased with our budding romance. It only took a week for your father to be engaged to another woman.” Yes, here it is, the breaking point. “My father fell ill soon after. Everything went so fast, until I was forced on the throne, fatherless and in need of a husband. That’s when Lancelot stepped in. He’d been my best friend for years, it only made sense. By the time I discovered I was pregnant, there was no going back from there. We couldn’t pretend the child was Lancelot’s, obviously, and the queen couldn’t have a child out of wedlock. We managed to hide the pregnancy, since I was barely out of the castle’s walls anyway, grieving. In the meantime, we arranged everything with Granny. She was a cook at the castle, at the time, and she agreed to take you to America, to give you the kind of simple, peaceful life we never could have offered you in Eala.”

Mary Margaret coughs softly, and only then does Emma notice the tears at the corner of the woman’s eyes. It must be a painful tale – that of losing her father, first love and only child, all in a matter of months. Still, the teenager doesn’t feel pity for her, doesn’t feel anything if frustration and anger, anything but the sixteen years of being abandoned, being an orphan, unloved and unwanted.

“The plan was to tell you once you turned eighteen, and let you go on with your life. But things never go according to plan…”

Emma scoffs at the understatement of the century. She shakes her head before downing her drink, the last sips of tea as bitter as the taste in her mouth. “What happened, next?” she asks with morbid curiosity. She needs to know; she needs to know _everything_.

“He married her, the other woman. And then he divorced her. She’s my Minister of Justice now, you’ll meet her if you come to Eala.”

Emma rolls her eyes. The last thing she wants is to meet her would-be stepmother. Hell, the last thing she wants is to go to that joke of a country and be paraded as the long-lost princess, the daughter prodigy coming home at last.

“Lancelot and I have a secure marriage, a good one. But we can’t have children, so…” The queen stops, lost in her thoughts. “Lancelot wants to meet you. You’ll like him, he’s kind and loyal.”

 _Still not the person I want to meet_.

By now, Emma is certain the queen is doing it on purpose, deflecting. And it pisses her off more than anything else in how obvious she is at doing it, how she barely even hides the fact that she doesn’t want father and daughter to meet. Which is absurd, really. Emma has done her researches on Eala – the country is ridiculously small, they are bound to meet at some point. Not that she’s planning to go to Eala anyway. Whatever.

“What about him? Does he – does he even know I _exist_?”

The way the queen shakes her head is all the answer Emma needs to feel the heaviness in her chest, breathes ragged in her lungs. She didn’t expect it to be that painful. “Not yet, at least. If we – _once_ we go public, he’ll connect the dots. He’s a clever man.”

She has a father who doesn’t know she exists and a mother who values her crown over her daughter, and Emma doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or cry. It is every orphan’s dream, to meet their parents, to finally get the answers to questions they’ve been asking themselves since the day they were abandoned. Now Emma isn’t so sure she likes knowing.

“What’s his name?” she asks at last, surprised when she realises that his name hasn’t been uttered once.

The queen hesitates. Sighs.

“David,” she says, and it sounds like a prayer, like a love letter. “His name is David.”

 _Her Royal Highness Emmaline Eva Ruth Swan_ , she thinks, _daughter of David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard_.

It sounds good.

She hates it.

 

…

 

Late, late, she is _late_. White rabbit walking down the corridors of Eala – a queen doesn’t run, her mother’s voice echoes in her head, a queen walks swiftly. Still, she is late for her daily meeting with her mother and if there is one thing Mary Margaret hates even more than breaking the protocol, it is tardiness. Especially when it’s the third time in a week. And it’s only Wednesday.

Not her fault if the castle is so big and so confusing and the servants all speak in freaking Spanish, which she doesn’t understand yet. Or in French. Which is worse. She misses Boston, she misses English and, most of all, she misses a life where she didn’t have daily meetings with Her Mother The Queen teaching her how to be a freaking princess and how to behave like a freaking lady.

Emma wants out, seriously.

Being a royal looked cooler in the movies.

So lost in her thoughts – _late, late, I am late_ – that she is, she barely doesn’t see that the door to her mother’s office is ajar instead of closed. It only is a voice, definitely masculine and definitely not belonging to her mother, that startles Emma out of her thoughts and makes her stop with her nose almost pressed to the door.

This is weird, because the queen always made sure to clear her (busy, crazy, ridiculous) schedule for their daily sessions. Perhaps Emma is early, after all? She isn’t sure. But, early or late, Emma is mostly curious, and so she can’t help but press her ear to the wooden panel of the door and listen on the conversation. The words are Ealan, but Emma has been through some intense learning already – she can’t speak it yet, but she understands well enough.

“… years! Sixteen years, and it never crossed your mind to tell me?” the man says, louder than is appropriate. Not that it matters, when Emma immediately understands the topic of their conversation. Mainly, her.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything, and you know it.”

“It would have changed everything! I could – I would – I could have raised her as my own.”

Mary Margaret scoffs, a sound so unladylike it surprises Emma for a second. “Here, in Eala? For everyone to see?”

“Or in the United States, or anywhere else. At least she wouldn’t have grown alone.”

That seems to shut the queen up. And to dazzle Emma too. _David Nolan_ , she thinks, _your father is David Nolan and he would have loved you_. She blinks and her vision goes blurry with tears she hadn’t even noticed. Unloved and unwanted, unless she wasn’t, unless one person was there to change her fate – the only person who didn’t know she existed, up until a few months ago. The irony of it all burns in her throat and prickles at the corner of her eyes.

“I want to see her,” David goes on.

“No.” The answer is immediate, irrevocable. “She isn’t ready yet.”

“She isn’t ready yet?” Emma hears footsteps and then what may as well be the sound of someone letting both their hands fall on a desk. He is faceless still in her mind, but she can imagine him standing proud and tall, towering over her mother in all his glory. That stranger of a father who already loves her so much. “Are we talking about her, or about you?”

There is a gasp, coming from Mary Margaret. Then, “Get out. Get out of that office, out of that palace. You’re not welcomed here.”

“Fine,” it is as sarcastic as a single word can be. “But don’t delude yourself, Mary. You can’t keep her away from me forever.”

Footsteps again. A squeal escapes Emma as she hurries away from the door and behind a column in the hallway, hiding before the door opens with a bang. She doesn’t see his face but, as he leaves, she stares at his back. He is blonde like her and his shoulders are broad, his every step proud and determined – she loves him so much too, that stranger of a father who would have wanted her.

 

…

 

Mary Margaret doesn’t forbid her from seeing him. Not in so many words, at least, but the message is clear during the following party at the castle – Emma’s first one – when she is introduced to every family, every lord and every lady. Every family but one for even if the Nolans were invited, none of them attended the soiree.

The message is clear enough, her mother’s wrath written all over her face. Emma may be young, and maybe a little too reckless for her own good, but she’s learning to pick her battles by now.

She gives it time. She will meet him, it is only a question of time.

 _You can’t keep her away from me forever_.

 

…

 

The stables are clean, perhaps a little too clean for it to look right – the walls white, the horses shining and quiet, the birds chirping happily in the trees. It is the kind of place that reeks of money, of course, not that Emma is that surprised – it has become her life, after all, and so she is used to the obvious displays of wealth by now. It is nothing like the stables she and Ruby frequented as kids, when they managed to convince Granny then wanted to try horse riding.

(A pitiful attempt at sports, clearly. Ruby turned out to be allergic to ponies, sneezing all the time, and Emma was too scared of the beasts to go to the lessons alone. Granny rolled her eyes and enrolled them in dance classes instead, which didn’t go all that well either.)

Emma asks for directions to a teenager, one who wears pristine white pants and shining leather boots, and the girls points her to a row of stables. Fourth one, she tells Emma, giving no indication as whether or not she recognizes the princess. Perhaps she is simply used to royals coming to this place – perhaps she is one herself, come to think about it.

Not that Emma entertains the thought for more than a few seconds as she walks towards the direction she was given. Her stomach suddenly makes itself present as it turns to knots. He wanted her, Emma tries to rationalize, everything will be fine. But then a little voice laughs at her and reminds her than nobody ever wanted her, no even her parents, and that he may have changed his mind since. It was such a long time ago, after all. He may not like what she has become, may not like the image of her shown in the newspapers. May not like her at all, once he gets to know her, which would only be worse.

She sighs as she stops in front of the fourth stable, closes her eyes and braces herself. Now is the moment of truth. No going back from there.

“David Nolan?” she asks, proud in how even her voice sounds.

She looks above the half door, sees him bending over next to a horse, hoof in hands.

“The one and only,” he replies, in Ealan, with a laugh in his voice. Emma melts. “Give me a second, please, this one got a pebble stuck under his shoe, I need to get it out.”

She switches to Ealan too, then. “Alright, sure. No problem.”

She winces at how lame she sounds – what a mess, really.

“Is that an American accent? Not a lot of you in our country.”

Even embarrassed, Emma smiles. “Yes, I’m from Boston. I need lessons and I was told you’re the best rider there is.”

He laughs again, louder this time. It is a rich and deep sound, coming straight from the heart, and it warms her from the inside out – the laugh of a happy man, a kind and considerate one. The laugh of her father. “Whoever recommended you, they were far too generous. I’m – oh, there it is.”

There is a soft ‘pock’ sound then, as the pebble falls to the ground, then David lets go of the horse’s hoof. The horse shakes its head, apparently happy to no longer be hurting. David pets its shoulder, twice, before he stands up.

“I’m not the rider I used to be. Back in the days–”

She doesn’t get to know what happened back in the days, because then he’s facing her and the words die in his throat as he stares at her, eyes and mouth wide open in an expression of shock. She tries to hide a grin by biting down on her bottom lip, but does a miserable job of it as she offers him a smile and a wave, then a shrug.

“Hi, dad,” she says, breaking on the second word as a sob gets stuck in her throat, eyes blurry with tears all of a sudden.

He doesn’t reply anything.

Instead, he crosses the distance between them, opening and closing the door to the stall in barely more than three seconds. And then she’s in his embrace as he holds her to him with one hand to the back of the head, his other arm tight around her waist. She laughs and it sounds like a sob, before she presses her nose to his collarbone, fingers wrapping around the fabric of his shirt by his back. He smells like horses and grass and wind, but mostly he smells the way she’s always imagine a father would smell.

“I knew it,” he says to her ear. “I knew you would find me, eventually.”

She smiles and nods, no longer keeping the tears at bay. It is almost sad, the kind of meeting she’s sharing with her father, when the first few months with her mother were cold and complicated – still are if she’s honest with herself. But the situation is different, too.

When he lets go, way too early to Emma’s taste, it’s to press a kiss to her forehead then cup her cheek as his eyes roam over her face. She does the same with him – they have the same hair, but she already knew, and the same nose too. He is handsome, the kind of father little girls would die to have and single mothers would try to seduce during school gatherings. The kind of perfect father every little orphan dreams of having.

And he’s hers, now.

“You’re even prettier than in pictures,” he tells her, his own voice wavering with emotions barely contains.

She blushes at the praise, adverting her eyes. It is too much at once, and he must feel it too, for he pulls her into another hug. This is good – hugging is easy, she can do hugs. Everything else can wait.


	10. Chapter 10

Emma doesn’t expect to jump on the back of a horse right away, but here is she twenty minutes later, grabbing the horse’s mane while her father gives her a leg-up. It’s all kinds of surreal, if she’s quite honest with herself, but she is feeling too nervous about everything to really ponder on it for the moment.

She’s on a horse.

A real-life, living horse.

Some part of her can’t help but think that this is the rich people’s equivalent of learning to ride a bike, probably. Not that she minds. She would have loved for David to teach her how to ride a bike, too.

“Why do you need to learn to ride?” he asks her as he shows the right way to hold the reins, neither too loose nor too tight to avoid hurting the horse’s mouth.

“Review of the guard,” Emma replies, aware of how clipped her voice sounds. She barely dares make a full sentence, least she loses her focus and makes a fool of herself on top of her horse. Or worse, falls off of it.

David nods simply, and corrects the way she holds her hands, for good measure. “Okay. We only need to go through the basics for now, then.”

 _For now_.

Even through her nerves, Emma smiles – she wouldn’t say no to more riding lessons if it means spending time with her father, just the two of them. Surely a lady of her rank needs to know how to ride a horse, anyway. She can’t go on in life without more lessons, quite obviously.

“Okay, heel down, back straight. Move forwards in your saddle. You must feel it in your thighs.”

Emma does as she is instructed. Thankfully she is used to standing straight already – her mother never forced her to walk around the room with books on top of her head, but it was a close thing. It comes naturally to her now, back straight, shoulders relaxed. It is no different on top of a horse, but she forces herself not to look down, just in case.

“Good. Now, gently squeeze his sides so he starts walking.”

“Stay there,” Emma finds herself saying, suddenly terrified.

David puts a comforting hand on her leg, and that more than anything has Emma looking down until she meets his eyes. He smiles kindly to her, his grin a little crooked to the left, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Her heart misses a beat.

 

…

 

David walks next to the horse for ten minutes, showing her how to turn and how to stop until she can do it without his instructions. Then he stands in the middle of the riding area as she makes circles around him, careful to always stare in front of her and keep her back straight at all times. Her legs aren’t sore (yet!) but when they finally stop and her feet touch the ground again, it takes her a few seconds to find her balance once more.

David then leads the horse back to his stable, only to tie him outside. It barely takes him seconds to get the horse rid of his saddle and bridle and, when he comes back from the saddler, it’s with a bucket full of brushes. He offers Emma one, and she stares at it, confused, for a few seconds, before tentatively brushing the horse’s shoulder.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even snort, so she goes on like it is the most natural thing to do. David cleans out the hooves, the way she saw him do when she arrived, comfortable silence settling between them as they take care of her mount.

Emma can’t remember a time Mary Margaret and she ever shared that kind of easy silence between them – their time together always spent talking, until they awkwardly go back to their own activities away from the other.

Comparing one parent to another isn’t fair, especially with the complicated past they all share, but Emma really can’t help it. Things have always been tense between her mother and her – truth be told, neither of them has ever tried fixing it – so the tentative relationship she is building with her father comes as a sharp contrast.

He jumped right into it like he was born for this moment, like he was always meant to be a father, and Emma takes it in stride. She needed it, perhaps.

“So, are we going to mention the elephant in the room?” David asks as he throws the hoof pick in the bucket then grabs a brush to take care of the horse’s other side.

Emma raises an eyebrow. “Which one? There’s a whole herd of them.”

David laughs and shakes his head, and she can only chuckle a little, too. This is all so ridiculous – what are you supposed to talk about with the father you just met after twenty years apart? Is there anything to say, really? She wonders if he read about her, in the magazines and online, if he looked her up when he learnt of her existence. She needs those answers, but also not – not exactly certain she wants to know the opinion he formed about her.

“How about we start with you marrying a man you don’t love?”

Her head snaps up, and she stares at him for a second or two, or ten. “That obvious?”

“Darling, you met him two weeks ago.”

Yes, it’s that obvious. Not that Emma cares all that much – they didn’t advertise her arranged marriage, but they didn’t hide it either, and anyone with a logical mind would draw the right conclusion as to her feelings towards Graham.

“Guess it runs in the family, huh? Not marrying for love.”

This isn’t fair – for any of them – but Emma is bitter about this, no matter how hard she tries to repress it. And there is something delightfully ironical about history repeating itself. It indeed runs in the family, head over heart, duty over love – not that Emma is in love with anyone, but she’s definitely ruling out the option of it ever happening by marrying Graham.

Silence settles between them, awkward this time.

Then, “You look so much like her.”

She knows, all things considered, that her father means it as praise. She knows, but it still stings a little. She doesn’t want to be compared to her mother, especially not on such a sore subject – there is something dreadful about the way the queen detaches herself from her feelings, so jaded by life she can simply ignore the calls of her heart. Emma fears becoming like that, one day.

“It’s not a bad thing,” David laughs softly, no doubt noticing her clenched jaw and the way she glares at her horse’s mane. “You’re stubborn and strong, just like her.”

“I don’t want to be like her,” she snaps before she can swallow down the words. She’s been keeping them for so long, locked up in a corner of her heart, that she burst out now that she opened Pandora’s box. “I don’t want to marry someone, like, ever. I don’t want to marry Graham, and some days I don’t even want to run this damn country. I – I’m just – I never asked for it.”

She throws the brush in the bucket, if only to run both hands through her hair in frustration. Rare are the moments where she just gives up on everything – she hasn’t let herself do so ever since she was sixteen and scared out of her wits at the prospect of even being a princess.

David is next to her in an instant, both hands on her shoulders. It does little to ease her nerves, but she appreciates the effort. He then cups her cheek, softly, before his hand travels to the back of her head and he pulls her to him in a much needed hug. It should scare her, how reliant on him she already is, but the warmth and comfort of his arm, the strength of his embrace, is all she needs right now.

“It’s okay to have doubts. Nobody can blame you for it.”

“She will.”

David scoffs, a little, and repeats “Stubborn” under his breath, like she wasn’t meant to hear it.

But she does, and she pushes him away a little, if only to glare at him. “Why are you defending her? She abandoned me. She lied to you and –”

But it’s written all over his face, clear as day, and Emma can only stare at the obviousness of it all. Her mouth opens agape as her brain makes the right connections, and there is no way around it then, no possibility to ignore or brush it off.

“You still love her.”

He doesn’t reply – doesn’t need to, it’s just so _obvious_ – but still offers her a sad smile and a shrug, as if to say he can’t help it. Two decades have passed, and he can’t help being in love with his teenage crush, with the woman he could never truly call his.

It hurts. Even to Emma, it hurts.

 

…

 

She takes a long shower that evening, to get rid of the dirt and sweat of the days. Her thighs are starting to burn, a little, as she slips into her pyjama shorts and pulls her hair into a high ponytail. Her bedroom smells of sugar and cheese when she opens the door to the bedroom, and Emma can only smile at the tray of food sitting on the coffee table next to her bed, Ruby lounging above the blankets, scrolling through her phone.

“Made you grilled cheese and hot chocolate,” she says matter-of-factly, like she didn’t cook her best friend dinner just for the heck of it.

Emma doesn’t know what she would do without her.

She sits directly on the floor, legs tucked under her, and grabs one of the sandwiches. The cheese melts into her mouth, the bread perfectly buttered, everything sweet and heavenly – she doesn’t moan, but it’s a close thing. Her diet here isn’t too strict, but still healthier than it was when she was in college, and Emma sometimes misses being able to eat the greasiest, fattiest junk food she can find.

Mostly she misses Granny’s food – her mouth-watering pies, her perfect lasagna, her hot chocolate with cinnamon – and can’t wait for the older lady to come live in Eala too. There is still the matter of selling the dinner and apartment, but Granny promised it would all be done by Emma’s birthday. She just can’t wait.

Ruby lets go of her phone and slides to the floor with her, leaning on the coffee table as she scoops some of the whipped cream with her finger, then put it in her mouth. Her smile is the perfect kind of mischievous, the one that tells Emma it is only a matter of seconds before the interrogation starts.

She beats Ruby to it.

“He’s perfect.”

Ruby grins, even beams a little on the spot, and nods towards her to ask for more details. Emma too happily obliges – for once, she has something more interesting to tell than this and that meeting – and throws herself into the retelling of the afternoon spent with her father. Ruby, as always, is the perfect audience, ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the right places, asking for this detail or that clarification when needed.

(She never met her parents, either, but unlike Emma she doesn’t seem to mind. She always had Granny, after all.)

“When are you seeing him again, then?”

Emma takes the mug of cocoa, careful not to burn her fingers on the hot porcelain. She softly blows on the top, to cool down the drink a little. “Belle is working on clearing my schedule. So, some time next week.”

The weekend will be busy with Graham coming back and moving in, anyway, so they won’t find the time for her to spend a few hours at the stables. But it’s the good kind of busy, so Emma doesn’t mind all that much. She can’t wait to tell Graham about it, too.

“Okay. Tell me when, I want to come with you.”

Emma grins at her best friend’s blatant and unapologetic curiosity – Ruby has never been one to hide her feelings, on any kind of subject she finds interesting. No doubt she will ask David a hundred questions, just to satisfy her curiosity.

That, and probably film Emma making a fool of herself on top of a horse.

“Yeah, of –”

The door to her bedroom opens, and both girls turn their head at once to look at the newcomer. The queen stands in the doorframe, proud and regal even in her nightclothes, robe hiding her gown and flats on her feet. She stares at the two girls for a second or two, her eyes traveling from one to the other, before they settle on Ruby.

“Could you leave us alone for a moment, please?”

Ruby looks back to Emma, eyebrow raised in a silent question, but Emma slightly shakes her head before she nods towards the door. They both stand up then, and Ruby grabs her phone where it rests on her bed before moving towards the door. She smiles at the queen when she passes her, then closes the door behind her on her way out.

Emma’s eyes stay on the door for a second, before she forces herself to look at her mother. She sighs. “You know.”

“Well, of course,” her mother rolls her eyes. “Belle isn’t as sneaky as she likes to think.”

There is the ghost of a smile on her mother’s lips, and Emma can only stare as the queen walks towards the sofa and sits on it, hands folded in her lap. She nods towards the empty space next to her, and Emma blinks at it before she grabs her mug of hot chocolate and goes to sit next to her mother.

“Are you mad?” she asks, because even after all these years she’s still unable to read the emotions on her mother’s face.

(Has she ever tried?)

“No. No, I’m not. Not at you, and not at Belle.”

Emma doesn’t sigh in relief, but it’s the intent that matters. The last thing she wants is for Belle to get into trouble for helping her scheme behind the queen’s back.

“I came to apologize, actually,” the queen goes on, and Emma’s eyes wide at the words. Well. That’s a first. “I shouldn’t have kept you away from him so long, especially for such selfish reasons. It was the wrong call, and I’m sorry.”

Emma’s eyes fall to her own hands, wrapped around the steaming mug. “Selfish?” is all she can ask. Ruby isn’t the only one suffering from morbid curiosity.

“I thought,” she starts, and shakes her head a little. “I know him. I knew the moment you’d meet, he’d become your favourite parent. I didn’t think I could take it; you already hate me so much as it is.”

Emma flushes, and refuses to look up. “I don’t hate you,” she mumbles, but it sounds weak even to her own ears. She doesn’t hate her mother, but there is resentment there, and it can’t go away in the snap of her fingers. Sometimes, Emma feels like it will never exactly go away, and she doesn’t know what to think of it – perhaps she has already resigned herself to never having a good relationship with her mother.

“You’re not exactly fond of me, either. Not that I can blame you for this.”

They don’t look at each other, and maybe it is the worst part – the detached, almost clinical, way to talk about their relationship, broken beyond repair. The way Mary Margaret states her daughter hates her, a simple fact more than an accusation.

Emma feels the bile rising in her throat, wonders how they got there – she knows, of course. Years of abandonment, of loneliness, followed by years of duty and careful avoidance. Perhaps they could have done something about it, perhaps they could have talked, tried. But they didn’t, and here they are.

“I don’t know how to be your mother,” the queen goes on, when the silence becomes too unbearable. “Every time I talk to you, it just – feels wrong.”

Emma sighs, and looks up to her mother. Their eyes meet, green and sad. Emma can’t deny that David was right – they do look a lot alike. Perhaps too much alike, both too stubborn for them not to come head to head most of them time. So Emma forces herself to smile, a little.

“I don’t know how to be your daughter, either.”

Mary Margaret smiles too, small and tentative as it is. “We can try. If you want.”

The smile on Emma’s lip blossoms slowly. “I’d like that, yeah.”

It still feels weird – like they’re walking on eggshells around each other – but Emma does want to try. She doesn’t want to build a relationship with her father while she looks at her mother and only sees a stranger. She wants her parents. Both of them.

Her mother’s eyes get a little misty, and she coughs lightly to hide her emotions, before she brushes invisible wrinkles off her robe and stands up. Emma isn’t sure if she is supposed to stand, too, so she doesn’t.

“I will leave you to it, then. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”

Emma nods. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

It isn’t until the queen reaches for the door handle that Emma speaks up. It’s a hastily-made decision – not a decision at all, actually, the words at the forefront of her mind before she can erase them, tumbling down her mouth before she can swallow them down. Caution thrown to the winds.

“Do you love him?”

(Morbid curiosity, and all that.)

Mary Margaret stops in her tracks, fingers wrapped around the handle. Her shoulders are tense beneath her robe, head hanging slightly even as she turns towards her daughter. Her eyes are misty again, but a different kind – regretful, defeated.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

But it does.


	11. Chapter 11

Graham comes back, and with him many a box. It takes Emma’s breath away, and she forces herself not to panic at the sight of all of his things carefully packed and brought to his bedroom. (They’re to live together _only_ once they are married, a century-old tradition that makes her roll her eyes as much as it soothes her worries.) Mostly, he comes back with his easy smiles and clear laughs – she had missed him, already fond of him the way she’s never been with anyone else. It’s not love but. But it could be, some day, if she lets her affections grow for him. And perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, really.

She helps him settle, mostly because it allows them to spend time together, and allows her not to be stuck in meetings all afternoon long. Graham owns an entire library, it seems, and they stand hip by hip as they put them on the shelves of his bookcase. It is too small, and so they’ll have to buy a new one once they start sharing the same room, but for now it will be enough. She reads each and every title, curious – there are some classics, of course, but also books about nature, animals, wanderlust. It makes her smile, and perhaps they’ll go skiing in the winter, if they find the time, perhaps they’ll go trekking through the mountains.

“So, anything happened while I was away?”

Emma forces herself not to blush at the thought of Killian and her in the broom closet, a few days ago. This is not a tale to share with her future husband, lest she wants to upset him. (Would he be jealous? Does she want to know?) So instead she thinks of her meeting with her father – it is easier a topic, after all, and so she throws herself into the tale without missing a beat, grin settling on her lips. Graham smiles back, soft and gentle.

“How did you not know how to ride a horse?”

She slaps his shoulder with a book, and he laughs.

“Well, now I do. So who’s laughing now, huh?”

He is laughing, a little louder, and she soon joins him with a bump of her hip against his. He bumps her back, playfully, and so she pokes her tongue out at him. Easy, simple.

 

…

 

On the day of the review of the guard, her stomach is in knots, and Emma pushes her food around her plate instead of eating. She doesn’t want to get sick and make a fool of herself, even if she knows she won’t need a stomach ache for the latter to happen. Her lessons with her father were successful, of course, but she is a pessimist at heart and can only dread the worst-case scenario, as always.

“You okay?” Graham asks, rubbing a hand against her back.

She nods around a mouthful of scrambled eggs, and it tastes like sand on her tongue. She washes it down with a sip of orange juice, making a face as she swallows. Graham’s grey eyes are full of concern as she stares back at him, but Emma forces a smile on her lips.

“You’ll be fine,” he tells her, and for a second Emma believes he’s going to lean forward and kiss her forehead. He doesn’t, but it’s a close thing.

“Let’s elope and live in the forest,” she replies, serious.

He laughs, crinkles at the corner of his eyes, and shakes his head. “You don’t need me to run away, you know.”

“I wouldn’t survive five seconds.”

He laughs again, and the sound eases her nerves, if only a little. “You do know how to make a bloke sound important.”

Emma grins and, when she shoves some more food in her mouth, it feels better already. Perhaps her lady mother was right, after all. She doesn’t need a husband to love, she only needs a husband who will support her no matter what. And Graham perfectly fits the bill for such a job.

He squeezes her hand one last time before a maid forces her out of the kitchens so she can get ready for the review of the guard. The next hour or so is spent doing the last alterations on her outfit – a deep blue jacket over beige trousers, with leather boots and gloves – as well as doing her hair and make-up. In the end, she looks more like she is ready to enter a horse-riding competition and less like she will review Eala’s army, but it isn’t a bad thing. She loves the look, and rolls her eyes playfully when Ruby insists on posting a picture to her social networks – official pictures will be posted everywhere in an hour or so, but a little sneak peek never hurt anyone.

Her nerves come back with a vengeance when she is led towards the royal gardens, knot settling in her stomach once more at the sight of her father standing next to the horse she is going to ride. He is in the middle of a conversation with Graham, both smiling and apparently enjoying themselves – it shouldn’t warm her heart, but it does.

“Gentlemen,” she greets them, with a smirk.

Her father smirks back, and rolls his eyes playfully – she made him promise not to give Graham the protective father speech, and he doesn’t sound like the type to go back on his words. Instead, he kneels a little and links his hands together, to propel her up on her horse. Emma does so easily, and readjusts her position for it to be as perfect as possible. Her back is straight and her head high, a gentle but solemn smile on her lips.

When she looks back to her father, she can only hear the words he said to her the first time they met – _you look so much like her_. For the first time, it doesn’t sound like such a bad thing.

“Let’s do this shit,” she says, and both men chuckle at her words.

It is almost time anyway, a stable boy popping out of nowhere to stand next to her horse. She looks back to her father and fiancé, one last time, before they walk away to go and stand in the crowd with the rest of the court – her father fading into the background while Graham is first in line, standing next to her mother. Mostly so the journalists’ cameras can dwell on him to their heart’s content – she can already hear them, analysing his every proud smile and happy eyes and, gosh, this is her life now.

Her horse bristles at the sound of trumpets, but then she presses her leg to his sides and the mount moves forwards at an easy, slow rhythm. They round around a corner, stable boy guiding them, and here they are – soldiers lining up with their weapons to their chests and hands to their temples in a perfect salute, heads high, shoulders squared. The captain of the guard is first in line, two steps in front of his soldiers. She stops in front of him with a nod, to which he replies by clicking his heels together and taking two steps back.

Emma presses her horse forwards once more, acknowledging each and every soldier with a nod. It takes time, of course, but time she does have, and so she forces herself not to rush through things, lest she makes a mistake along the way. She should have it covered, but one never knows.

She is almost at the end of the line, almost done, when her horse starts bristling under her. She doesn’t mind it at first – it is an animal and not a robot, after all – but a particularly loud snort has her frown down at the horse. She tightens her hold on the reins seconds before the horse rears. Not too high at first, but then he snorts once more and does it again, high enough that she loses her balance and falls against his neck.

“Wow, wow,” she says, forces herself not to yell.

She hears her name being said by several voices, echoes of ‘Emma!’ and ‘Your Highness!’, as the horse gets even more nervous and scared. She tries to gain her balance once more, but there is no point – it all happens fast, but also in slow motion, the horse neighing loudly before he jumps forwards. The strength of it has Emma lose her balance and fall down, face first in the grass. People around her gasp, loudly, and she faintly hears her mother calling after her over the pounding of the blood in her ears. She looks up to many cameras pointed at her, and even more eyes.

So Emma does the first thing that crosses her mind.

She stands up, and runs away.

 

…

 

Emma doesn’t cry.

She doesn’t allow the tears to roll down her cheeks, even with the sting in her hands and knees. The soft grass broke her fall, but not enough for it not to hurt – the palms of her hands red and bruised, her knees grass-stained and burning. But, mostly, it is her ego who hurts the most. She made a fool of herself on national television, and knows enough about the way internet works to guess it will go viral – probably already is viral, who is she even kidding? A small, desperate part of her hopes that her mother will have paid off the journalists not to broadcast the videos, but she doesn’t feel too optimistic about this. They aren’t a dictatorship, and the liberty of the press was still a thing, last time she checked.

Emma heaves a sigh, and forces herself not to cry.

“Are you all right?”

The cackle escapes her lips before she even raises her head – she doesn’t need to see the newcomer to know his identity, the sound of his voice more than enough. (And what does that say about her?) The sound is bitter and sarcastic in her mouth, and Killian looks perfectly scolded when their eyes meet, like he is aware that he pressed his luck with such a question. Still, he doesn’t back away, and the shame in his eyes turns to concern as he takes in her state of disarray and her reddening hands.

“If you’re here to gloat,” she starts, but has no idea how to actually finish her sentence. Any kind of threat feels empty and useless, all of a sudden.

“I’m not,” he says, soft, caring.

He kneels in front of her, close without touching her, and tilts his head to the side. The urge to punch him is present, but that would be useless too. She can already see the headlines from there – Runaway princess punches her nemesis in the face. Good for her nerves, not so good for her reputation. Or even the reputation of her family, when you think about it. She huffs and closes her fists, swallowing down a hiss of pain at her nails digging into the sensitive skin of her palms.

Killian drops something in her lap and, when she looks down, it’s to find a carefully folded handkerchief, his initials embroidered with a blue thread in a corner. It would be sweet but – it’s Killian Jones. Nothing is ever sweet with him, always measured and calculated.

Still, she says, “Thank you,” because she was raised better than that. Her voice sounds nasal, her nose stuffy with the tears she refuses to cry. She is a wreck, and of course she is a wreck in front of the man who could take her weakness and turn it into ammo. Just her luck.

“You shouldn’t be hiding. It will only make matters worse.”

She wants to laugh – both because an open bandstand in the middle of the gardens makes for a poor hiding place, and because she hardly sees how things could get worse from here. Emma feels like she has hit rock bottom, at that point.

She goes for saying as much, when another voice startles them both. “Lord Jones. May I have a word?”

They both look up to find her father on the first step of the bandstand, worry at the corners of his mouth even if he offers Killian a deadly glare. The younger man doesn’t need more to give her one last smile as well as his hand. Emma hesitates, if only for a second, before she grabs it and lets him propel her up. Her smile is careful but present as she ducks her head and walks past him – she slows down to squeeze her father’s hand, and he squeezes right back.

Only then does Emma see the other people gathering not far off – her mother, of course, and with her Leroy, but also Ruby and Graham and, more surprisingly, Lady Zelena. The latter offers Emma a sneer she probably meant as a smile, before she all but jogs towards the bandstand, no doubt to check on her nephew.

The conversation her father has with Killian is too soft for Emma to make out the words as she goes to stand with her mother – the queen grabs her hand and seems to hesitate, before pulling her into an awkward hug – but Zelena’s voice rings loud and clear in the silent gardens.

“Come on, Killian. Showtime’s over, let’s go home.”

“A word, Zelena?” David says, a little louder too, loud enough that Emma wonders if it is on purpose. “You can go, Killian.”

Killian does so, head low – he only casts Emma a glance as he makes his way down the steps of the bandstand, then shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and leaves without another word. Still in the comforting embrace of her mother, Emma watches him go until he disappears around a corner. She blinks, and snuggles a little closer to Mary Margaret, who only tightens her hold on her.

“If you threaten the crown once more…” her father starts, making Emma frowns.

She turns her head ever so slightly, just enough to see her father draping what appears to be a rubber snake around Zelena’s shoulder. The woman stands tall and proud, but even from there Emma can see her body shivering – with fear or anger, or both.

Still, Zelena laughs, a high-pitched chuckle. “Oh, we all know how – protective of the crown you can be. How _brave_ of you.”

David takes a step closer to Zelena. His lips move, fast, his words too low to be heard – Emma can only guess the kind of threats coming from his mouth in that moment, even more so with the way Zelena forces herself to stand even taller, as if trying (and failing) to get the upper hand in the discussion. It only takes a few moments, really, then she clicks her tongue and turns on her heels, following in her nephew’s steps as she leaves the castle’s grounds.

Everyone is stunned into silence, and Emma’s mind reels with everything that happened in the last few minutes. It is not all that complicated to put the pieces back together – her horse was afraid of snakes, and Zelena took it as the perfect opportunity to ridicule Emma in front of the army, the court, and the press. There is the matter of how she managed to convince the stable boy to help her in her scheme, but this is why they have Leroy – he will deal with it, and soon enough.

It is only when Mary Margaret’s body tenses against her that Emma realises David is now by their side – she would smirk at her mother’s obvious reaction, were the situation different. As it turns out, Emma only raises her head and offers her father a grateful smile, to which he replies with one of his own as his hand comes to draw circles on her back.

“I – I should go and deal with the press,” her mother says, voice as tense as her body. “Do some damage control while I still can.”

But even then, the queen seems reluctant to let go of Emma.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out.

“It’s not your fault,” the queen replies, and kisses her forehead.

It only makes Emma smile – Mary Margaret wouldn’t have thought about it twice, not two weeks before, but she is slowly starting to understand that maybe, just maybe, her relationship with her daughter is as important as her duties as queen. Emma’s heart squeezes a little in her chest, the feelings unknown but not unwelcomed.

“Don’t worry, mom. I can stay with dad while you take care of it, right?”

Both adults are stunned into silence at her casual use of pet names – she rarely, if ever, calls her mother that, but it sounds right in her mouth, all of a sudden. She smiles, even more so when she notices how both of them stare at each other, only for a second, before looking away. There is a time and place for everything, and being smug about that particular topic is neither here nor there, but Emma catalogues it in a corner of her mind, to be dealt with later.

Emma is the one to let go of her mother, then, if only to stand a little closer to her father. It feels unfamiliar but, then again, not particularly unwelcomed. The queen takes it in stride then, with a nod and a smile, before she gestures for Leroy to follow her – her features ease into a more professional expression, as if readying herself for war.

“He didn’t know.” Her father’s voice startles her out of her thoughts, and she looks up at him with a confused frown. “Killian. He didn’t know of his aunt’s plans.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

“If you’re going to hate him, you should do it for the right reasons.”

There is something dancing in her father’s eyes, something Emma refuses to recognize, or even acknowledge. Instead, she looks down at her wounded hands, and picks at the mud stuck under her nails. It is enough to divert her father’s attention, and soon everyone is fussing over her hands and her knees, and how she needs to go back to the castle immediately. Graham’s hand on her back anchors her all the way to her chambers, and Emma is all too happy to burrow herself under the covers as she lets a maid take care of her hands.

She forces herself not to think of today’s events too much but, every time she closes her eyes, she can only picture Killian’s ones, blue and concerned. She groans, and curses her father.


	12. Chapter 12

Emma stands in front of her wardrobe, one hand on her hip while the fingers of the other tap against her cheek. A pout forms on her lips as she weighs her options for what will be her first outing since the Guard Review From Hell (a title affectionately given by Ruby for what is, clearly, the most embarrassing day in Emma’s life). She grabs a shirt, examines it for long seconds, before putting it back with a sigh – she hasn’t reached the point when she lets other people dress her yet, but it seems like a good option all of a sudden.

“You know what’s weird, though?”

Emma turns around to cork an eyebrow at Graham’s question. He doesn’t even look up from the magazine he’s flipping through, and – okay.

“You watching me dress?” she replies, nonchalant.

She’s already dressed, of course, but the jeans-t-shirt combo doesn’t suit a proper, royal outing with her proper, royal fiancé. Go figure. So here she is, having to pick another outfit while all Graham has to wear are his cargo pants, white shirt, and most charming smile. Life truly is unfair sometimes.

“No. Well, yes. But…” Emma snorts and focuses back on her wardrobe, while Graham goes on. “How is it that they want to crown you now even if your mother is, what, forty?”

“Thirty-nine,” she replies, a reflex. She frowns down at a flower-patterned shirt – maybe with a simple pair of jeans… “Well, the plan was for me to keep training by her side for a while, but that was before we knew I had competition so –”

She grabs the shirt and turns around to show it to Graham, which. It’s not exactly like she needs his opinion, especially on something as trivial as the outfit of the day, but – she’s getting used to asking for his opinion, period, and decided to start with the little things.

He makes a face, and shakes his head. “You wore that when I proposed to you.”

Emma looks down at the shirt, and sighs dramatically. Lord forbid she wears the same clothes more than once; the outrage! “Is it selfish of me to want to just, you know, abolish that stupid law once I’m in charge?”

“And then you create the philosopher’s stone to reign forever.”

She lets out a cackling laugh. “An alchemist after my own heart.”

Graham grins, eyes sparkling with mirth. Emma rolls her eyes at him, for the heck of it, before she grabs another shirt at random – pale blue it is, then. She locks herself in the bathroom just long enough to put it on, and then comes back to the main room, snatching a pair of heels before she sits next to Graham. He eyes her outfit before humming his approval, and it’s hard not to smirk a little. Token husband. Fashion advisor. There’s something amusing in how random that is.

“Mostly, the law was made so that if a tyrannical ruler was on the throne, the next in line could just claim the title once they were of age. It’s a stupid law.” She would know; Katheryn and her councillors spent hours reading and analysing the laws to find a loophole that didn’t exist. (And isn’t it weird, her would-have-been step-mother working on the laws for her?) “It didn’t really pose a problem as long as I was the only heir to the throne but…”

Emma shrugs, a little, as she sits straighter once she is done with tying her shoes. When satisfied, she stands up and twirl in front of Graham. There is no skirt to fan around her legs, but he laughs anyway – he’s a good audience like that.

“Am I to your liking, husband-to-be?”

He fakes pondering over it. “That will do, I guess.”

“Asshole,” she laughs. Her arm stretches of its own accord, fingers running through his hair just above his ear – it’s soft and longer than she expected, and she freezes when she realizes what she’s doing. Graham doesn’t close his eyes or lean into her touch; instead, he eyes her curiously, then looks at her arm, then back to her eyes. “Weird?” she asks.

“We’ll get there. Eventually.”

He grabs her wrist and pulls softly, only to entwine his fingers with hers, and she helps him up. It does feel weird, even to her, but he is right – they’ll get there, eventually, when they’ll have no other choice but to accept their duty to their family and country.

“But first we need to get to the restaurant in time,” she replies, all forced casualness.

“Well, I’m not the one who took forever to pick an outfit.”

She slaps his arm, and laughs.

 

…

 

Emma discovers, a little out of nowhere, that her visit to Mist Haven’s orphanage wasn’t cancelled as much as postponed. That’s the problem with not being in charge of her own schedule – she has no idea what’s going on, most of the time. Not that she minds (much) because at least Belle is always there to remind her of things to do, places to go, and people to meet, but. It’s a little unnerving, more often than not.

She also discovers, since one surprise isn’t enough, that she won’t be alone during the visit, and internally groans. Well, she externally groans too because – it’s Killian, she’s allowed to be vocal about her frustration with him. He only smirks, proud as a peacock, while Belle explains the hows and whys to her. It basically comes down to: rumour has it that Zelena indeed was behind the fiasco of the review of the guard, and they need to contain those rumours of family feuds. (On top of needing to contain the rumours of David being Emma’s father, but this ship sailed the moment a picture of the two of them side by side appeared in the press.)

So here she is, actually playing buddies with Killian fucking Jones of all people, with absolutely no one by her side to hold her back if she decides to strangle him. _Not in front of the children_ , Graham had told her with a laugh. Adorable, clueless Graham.

They even share the same car, and Emma sits as close to the window as possible, not looking up from her phone all the way to the orphanage. She refuses to make it easy for him and, if the way he nervously glances at her once in a while is anything to go by, it’s working perfectly so far. Thankfully, she mastered the art of lying through her teeth when she was only a teenager, and the art of pretending to like someone around the same age. Her smiles are fake but bright and, even if she doesn’t stand close to him, she remains friendly enough to fool everyone around them – social workers, children, journalists. It is hypocrisy at its finest but – well, all is fair in love, but especially in war.

Emma even manages to crack a joke with Killian when they are introduced to the orphanage’s manager – the look he throws her is bemused at best, even awestruck. Not that she focuses on that. Instead, she shakes the manager’s hand – a woman with wavy hair and kind eyes named Wendy, and Emma likes her on the spot. She is the kind of person who actually looks like she cares about children, instead of it just being a paycheck at the end of the month.

“It is an honour to meet you, Your Highness, My Lord.”

“The pleasure is all ours,” she replies with her mother’s poise and father’s kindness.

“Shall we start the visit, then?”

There are, of course, the pictures taken in front of the building, fake-shaking Wendy’s hand and smiling to the cameras, before they can actually start the visit itself. But Emma is used to that, by now, and plays along without a hitch. Only a couple of selected journalists follow them inside, and with them the royal photographer. But they are discreet, staying in the back and never forcing their presence on anyone else, so it is easy for Emma to just forget they are here in the first place – Killian keeps glancing their way, though, and she smirks at him. It feels good, having the upper hand on him, sometimes.

“Here is the common room,” Wendy tells them as they enter said room. “The children spend most of their free time here, socializing and watching TV. We only have the main channels and a few DVDs that were donated to us, but we make do.”

The room feels lively enough, with drawings on the walls and comfortable couches everywhere, as well as many tables and a large pile of board games in a corner. But the TV has seen better days, small and ancient. Everything is clean, but clearly old and used. Emma winces as she takes out her phone to takes pictures and notes – Wendy sends her a look, as hopeful as it is grateful.

They continue the visit through the main rooms – dining room with its long, wooden tables; kitchens and their many fridges (“We cook everything ourselves and are mindful of everyone’s diet.”); the bathrooms with the sinks aligned against a wall; the dormitories and their many bunk beds. Emma stares, in awe, at the way each child managed to make their bed feel like home despise their scarce belongings. There are drawing on the walls and plush animals on the beds, sometimes a baby blanket tucked under a pillow or a pair of shoes on the ground. One bedside table has a bouquet of wildflowers, in a tumbler.

Of course Emma thinks of her own baby blanket, carefully tucked under her pillow. It’s impossible not to think of her baby blanket, and the way she would hold on tightly to it at night, or wrap herself around it when there was a nasty thunderstorm out there. It was her only link to her parents, when it was only her and Ruby and Granny, before everything.

“Emma, are you okay?”

She startles at the hand on her lower back, and Killian’s close proximity – closer than he’s ever been, and she blinks up at him. She hadn’t realized her vision was blurry. This is embarrassing. Her cheeks flush as she looks away and forces herself to take a deep breath, if only to gather her wits. With a shake of the head, she offers him a self-deprecating smile.

“I got lost in my thoughts for a second,” is all she says.

She refuses to give further details about it, if only because it is no one’s business but her own. So she gives Wendy a smile, too, as she finds her composure once more, all business, no feelings.

“Where are the children?”

They’ve been here for more than half an hour now, without meeting a single one of them. It is strange, to say the least – but not strange to Wendy, if the grin she offers them is anything to go by.

“The oldest ones are spending the day at the beach. The youngest are in the garden. They’re waiting for you, actually.”

She says that like they’re celebrities, or something, which. Okay. The kids are about to meet a real princess. Emma understands that they could be excited about it; it’s every little kid’s dream to meet someone like that. So she nods, and follows Wendy out of the room. Killian’s hand lingers on her back for a few more seconds, before he remembers himself and shoves both of them in the pockets of his jeans.

Everything becomes a little noisier once Wendy opens the door leading to the garden for them, and then everything becomes silent again – twenty or so pairs of eyes locking on her, all wide and surprised. Emma can only smile at such a sight, and she bites down a laugh not to look too mocking. Because – hell, because they’re adorable, all shaggy hair and ratty clothes and mud under their nails. It warms her heart, in more than one unexpected way.

“Children,” Wendy raises her voice, and claps her hands. “This is Her Highness, Princess Emma, and Lord Jones. What do we say?”

“Hello, Your Highness,” comes a chorus of little voices.

Emma sends Killian an amused glance, mostly because the kids didn’t say hello to him, only to her. He rolls his eyes, playful, with the same kind of smile on his lips. Not that Emma can do anything after that, because one little girl, bolder than the others, comes to stand in front of her and takes her hand, tugging a little.

“I love your hair,” she says with a grin – one tooth is missing, and her ponytail is crooked.

“Thanks. I love yours too.”

“Can you show me how you make the braid that goes all around your head?”

And that is how Emma finds herself sitting at a picnic table with several little girls, combing her finger through their hair and showing them how to make some of the simple braids she’s worn at different events. They all seem to know when, as well as the dresses she wore, and it feels strange – knowing they learnt all that in magazines or on TV, and cared enough to remember even without knowing she would one day come to visit.

“Is he your husband?” one of the youngest asks, pointing her finger at Killian.

Unsurprisingly, he’s started a match of soccer with some of the kids, even if it looks more like a giant brawl than an actual soccer match. Emma wonders if teams are involved, not that anyone seems to care. Also, she snorts a little at the girl’s question.

“No, silly!” the one who came to her first, Gretel, says. “Her husband is the pretty one.”

This is the last straw, and Emma laughs out loud. “I’m sure Graham would love to hear that.”

Gretel blushes, a little, but holds her head high anyway, unbashful. Emma likes that about her, a little brash around the edges as she has no problem speaking her mind. She will need that attitude, later in life.

“Killian is pretty too!” another girl exclaims, offended on his behalf.

The two girls seem ready to start an argument over it, until little Paige, sitting on her lap, turns around to pat her cheek delicately. “Emma is the prettiest.”

All the girls seem to agree, with a great many “Yes, she is!” and “Even prettier than Kate!” Emma is the one to blush this time, and she hides it by focusing back on Paige’s hair, fingers swift in their braiding – she spent too much time doing Ruby’s hair, and her own, not to know how to do a Dutch braid.

Then the girls show her their tree house – nothing but a bunch of planks badly nailed to the lower branches of a tree, enough for Emma to blanch at the sight of it. Her mind is reeling already with too many ideas, even if she knows it will be a nightmare, for her as well as the Minister of Finances. Truth be told, she doesn’t really find it in herself to care, right now.

“Henry is alone again,” Paige states, out of nowhere.

Emma turns around to where the girl is looking. A little boy sits on the ground, with his back to the house’s wall and a large book in his lap. He looks as lonely as he is alone, reading in a corner while everyone else is playing. Emma sighs, silently.

“He doesn’t have friends?”

“Not really,” Paige says, all sad. Then she adds in a whisper, with her hands around her mouth, “He’s _weird_.”

Emma bites on her bottom lip, pensive for a moment. Killian is still wrestling with the other kids in a corner, one clinging to each of his legs and three on his back – it’s not really hard to look from the girls to him, then to the girls again.

“Hey. Why don’t you go and tell Killian all about how pretty Graham is?”

The girls don’t need to be asked twice, little shits that they are – they dart towards him with mischievous grins and laughs, Gretel at the head of their little group. It leaves Emma enough space to move to the other corner of the garden. Leroy stands not too far away, hands clasped behind his back, and he raises a knowing eyebrow her way when she kneels on the ground to sit next to the boy, her back to the house’s wall too.

“Hey,” she tells him, soft.

“Hi,” he replies, not looking up from his book. He pouts, a little, and adds, “You should go back with the others. They’re more interesting.”

“I’m sure you’re plenty interesting too. What are you reading?”

He raises the book so she can take a look at the cover – the Brothers Grimm’s _Children’s and Household Tales_. Emma grins. “Fairy tales, huh?”

“We only have Peter Pan’s DVD,” Henry replies, and makes a little crunchy face. “This is better.”

Emma takes out her phone, to add ‘buy new dvds’ to her list of notes, and add half a dozen exclamation points for emphasis. She can’t help but think how morbid it is for orphans to only watch Peter Pan, as far as Disney movies are concerned. She really hopes they don’t have copies of Oliver Twist in their little library, or she’s giving up on everything.

(She adds, ‘and books,’ for good measure.)

“Is it true?” Henry starts, out of nowhere. “That you found out about your true parents when you were sixteen?”

This is as slippery as the slope can get, but Emma expected it – actually, she is surprised Henry is the first one to ask about it, for her story is not a secret. Of course, she understands where he is coming from with this question; it is every orphan’s dream to find their parents again, and to get the happily ever after they weren’t promised. Emma dreamt of it too, more times than she is comfortable admitting.

“Yes,” she replies, careful. “I was very lucky.”

“You were,” he nods. “Nobody wants to adopt us. We’re too old, they only care about babies.”

“But life is good here, huh?”

She doesn’t ask just for the heck of it – she needs to know. Needs to know if the kids are as happy as they seem, if Wendy doesn’t just pretend to be caring and friendly. She needs to know if the place is clean because they knew she would visit, if everything is just one carefully organized lie.

Henry ponders on the question for a moment, arms folded on top of his book and pensive pout on his lips. When he looks to her, at last, his eyes are a striking brown, wise beyond his age. “Could be better,” he says, but it’s light, easy.

“I’ll see to that,” she nods.

 

…

 

“They think _Humbert_ is prettier,” Killian states after long minutes of silence.

They’re in the car, driving back to the castle after hours of games and finger painting. Emma cackles, loudly. Even more so when Killian folds his arms on his chest, obviously sulking. Oh, a man’s ego, such a fragile little thing. She snorts through her nose, and looks back to the landscape by the other side of the window.

“You’re going to create a foundation for them, aren’t you?”

Emma opens her mouth to protest but – yes, that is exactly what she had in mind, actually. The orphanage is good, but not good enough to her standards, and she can do something about it. She is in the perfect position to do something about it, and about many other causes she holds dear to her heart. It would be a shame not to use her power and influence, not to mention her money, to help those who need it.

“Yeah,” she replies. “Yeah, I will.”

“Good,” he replies, and she hears the smile in his voice. “Orphans sticking together, I like that.”

She does, too.


	13. Chapter 13

The queen’s not-so-subtle attempts at damage control after the Guard Review From Hell continue all through the week, with Emma and Graham having lunch in town almost every day, as well as visits to this association or that building. Everything is good to remind the general opinion that Emma is a dedicated queen-to-be and that she cares about her country, its culture, its people. It works, more or less. The video is still viral on the Internet, but local newspapers stop talking about it – and perhaps it is all that matters.

Of course, all eyes are on Emma the following week, during the parade for Eala’s National Day. She expected it, but it only worsens the knots of tension in her neck as she sits next to her mother in the carriage, brushing invisible wrinkles off her dress. She doesn’t have anything to do, beside smiling and waving to the crowd, but knows some people (Zelena included) are waiting for her to screw this up too. She refuses to prove them right.

Her mother squeezes her hand as the parade starts, a sign of empathy if Emma has ever seen one, and then everything happens in a blur. Her cheeks are hurting from grinning too much, and Emma hopes it looks genuine instead of forced – especially when her arm grows heavier from all the waving, muscles not used to such a thing. She nearly bursts into laughter when the parade passes by the orphanage, though, all the kids gathered in front of its door to cheer as loudly as their little voices will allow them. They even put a large, colourful sign on the wall – ‘Princess Emma rules!’ with a backward R, and then, in smaller letters, ‘happy national day!’.

Everything else rolls flawlessly from there, no mishap to ruin the show. Mary Margaret visibly sighs when she gets off the carriage; Emma doesn’t blame her, not when she lets out a sigh of her own too, relief and confidence pumping in her blood. It is but the beginning, of course – they still have to got through an entire afternoon of celebrations in the castle’s gardens, with Ealan noblemen and foreign ambassadors alike.

Emma swallows down a sandwich as she lets Grace work magic on her hair, trying not to choke on crumbles as Ruby complains about her own attire – she was forbidden from wearing her usual clothes today, Queen’s orders. The brunette looks out of place without her mini-skirts and outrageous cleavages, tugging on the hem of her red dress and glaring at Emma when she dares to laugh.

Her own dress is made of blue fabric, leaving her back bare and stopping above her knees. A little indecent for such an official event, perhaps, but not exactly inappropriate either – Emma is a princess, not a nun. And a twenty-one-year-old princess at that. She is allowed to favour beauty over decorum from time to time.

“See?” Ruby asks, pointing to Emma with both hands. “You look awesome. I look like – I don’t know, Norman Bates when he dresses like his mother.”

Emma laughs out loud. “You and I have very different memories of Psycho.”

Ruby huffs and puffs all she wants, but Emma has no doubt she will have no problem flirting with each and every one of the guests, given the chance. As long as it doesn’t end with a diplomatic incident over her making advances to someone, they’ll be just fine. That’s actually what Emma tells Ruby, just to be sure, as both women make their way towards the gardens. Graham is waiting at the door, offering his arm to Emma, and Ruby decides that the best choice for her advances apparently is Belle. Go figure.

(Belle is fifteen years their elder, but Ruby never really got over her teenage crush for the woman. Bless her soul.)

The next two hours or so are spent greeting the guests and doing small talk with everyone, as well as smiling for the photographs. Today is a little more entertaining than usual, though, and not just because Ursula herself is singing, the guests rightfully enchanted by her ethereal voice and presence on the stage that was built for her. No, today is entertaining because Graham is at Emma’s side, whispering lame jokes into her ear and attempting rather pathetically to speak Ealan with the members of the court. He’s been learning the language ever since their engagement was made official, but a few weeks of intense classes are never enough to hold an entire conversation. So she helps, even if her own Ealan isn’t exactly perfect yet either. At least they’re both trying, and switching to English as soon as they can, for their own sake and patience.

“Emma!” Ariel shows up out of nowhere, champagne flute in one hand, pastry in the other. “What’s Lord Doucheface doing here?”

Emma forces herself not to laugh, especially at Graham’s incredulous face – Ruby’s nickname for Killian kind of became A Thing among her group of friends, used in group texts and all. Still, Emma rolls her eyes, and makes a face at Ariel, giving her all the answer she needs to such a question. Having to play pretend – friendship really is magic, guys! – with Killian is getting tiring after a while, and Emma wishes she didn’t have to wait until her wedding to finally see him off of her life. The sooner he leaves, the better.

“Do you have a nickname for me too?” Graham asks, obviously curious.

“Lord McDreamy,” Mulan deadpans. Emma’s friends truly have a way of making an entrance – not that Graham seems to mind, if his grin is anything to go by. “But how is Doucheface Ursula’s date?”

“What are you guys talking about?” Ruby asks as she joins their circle, which really mustn’t look suspicious to anyone looking their way – no, my good sir, we are not gossiping, nothing to be seen here.

“Killian is Ursula’s date,” Ariel explains, looking like murder – her feud with Ursula is a thing of legends, even if Emma never dared asking how it all started, and no one ever put her in the know. “I would say she can do better but… No, he’s at her level, really.”

“You know you’re really not subtle about whatever this is?” Eric asks as he puts an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders.

Emma rolls her eyes because – yes, she is aware but, no, there is nothing she can do about it. She knows her friends way too well for that; when they’re in that particular mood, nothing can stop them. So she decides to tug on Graham’s arm instead, and he gets the message alright, following her outside of their little circle and away from the gossiping. They’re still whispering, though, Ariel’s voice getting angrier by the second, which helps lifting Emma’s spirits a little. God only knows she needs it right now.

“I love them,” she tells Graham, once they’re far enough from the rest of the group not to be heard by them. “But sometimes they’re a bit – too much.”

“I can see that,” he replies with a grin.

Sometimes, she envies how easy this entire thing seems to be for him – of course, even if of lower rank, he was born into this world, so it’s logical for him to be more at ease than she is. Still, Emma envies him, and the way he has no problem doing small talk even with the most boring of people, asking questions about uninteresting topics and nodding at each sentence said by the person he’s listening to. Those are qualities that don’t come seamlessly to Emma, and sometimes she fears it might show, that people can see how forced everything feels to her. Hopefully, it’s just in her head, but – with Graham, it’s easier.

“Your Highness!”

Emma turns her head, smile blossoming on her lips at the sight of Ursula – the same smile that falters a little at the sight of Ursula’s date, one solid arm wrapped around the singer’s waist. Perhaps staying with the band of gossip girls wasn’t that bad an idea, in comparison.

“Ursula!” she exclaims cheerfully. Then, in a flat voice, “Lord Jones, you’re here too.”

Killian replies with a shit-eating grin, of course – she didn’t expect any less coming from him. His hold tightens on Ursula’s waist, possessive enough to make Emma want to gag a little. What an asshole, seriously. Can’t they move the wedding’s date forward, so she can get rid of him as soon as possible? Is it too late to just elope and be done with it?

“You Highness, Lord Humbert,” he replies. “I wasn’t aware you and Ursula were acquainted yet.”

Emma turns to Graham, then to Ursula, before she remembers her manners – she does tend to forget them when Killian is around. Mostly because she wants to spit in his face and flips him the bird, or even punch him in the face. Go figure.

“Oh, Ursula, this is my fiancé, Graham. Graham, darling, you know Ursula of course.”

It’s hard to tell if Graham’s smirk is because of her casual use of a pet name or not, but then he squeezes her hip and – yes, deliberate, for sure. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Ursula opens her mouth, no doubt to return the compliment. Not that Killian gives her the opportunity. “Did Emma tell you Ursula is classically trained?”

“Killian, come on…”

Emma knows it’s childish. She knows it is, she can see through his game, understands exactly what he is doing and why. She could ignore it and just share pleasantries. She would, if she were a better person – it is what her mother would want her to do, what everyone would expect her to do. But the moron has been a thorn in her side for weeks now, and enough is more than enough.

“Oh really? Graham graduated from Oxford, you see.”

Killian smiles, the underlying _gotcha_ clear as day. She’s predictable, but so is he. “Ursula has a master’s degree in musicology.”

“Graham spent a year doing charity work in –”

Ursula grabs Graham’s arm, pulling him away from Emma as she says, “Well, they could be here all day. How about a drink?” And, really, Emma can’t blame her, or even Graham for agreeing whole-heartedly. She needs to stop using him when it is the most convenient to her, it’s anything but fair to put him in such a position. (She makes a mental note of apologizing later, once everyone is gone.)

And – well, it leaves her alone with Killian. That’s unfortunate.

“You too make such a lovely couple,” Killian starts, baiting her again.

Why is she making it so easy for him? It’s like a little boy pulling on the little girl’s pigtails during recess, waiting to be slapped until the teacher has to pull them apart. Emma was never really good at not taking the bait – Granny had to give her too many lectures about violence and politeness and keeping your cool.

“Well, thank you.”

“I mean, he clearly adores you…”

“Yeah, he does.”

“Too bad you don’t love him.”

“No, I – _wait a second_.”

He has the grin of the cat who ate the canary as he walks away from her, throwing her a wink from above his shoulder. Emma huffs and puffs, and even stomps her foot on the ground, before she follows him through the hedge maze and away from the crowd. It isn’t the kind of labyrinth where you can get lost, which is all the better – Emma is already too lost in her own mind as it is.

“Come back. How _dare_ you?”

He takes a turn left, and turns around to walk backwards so he can face her, hands in the back pockets of his suit pants and grin still on his lips. Oh, how she wants to claw at his face.

“The truth always hurts, love.”

“It doesn’t hurt and it isn’t the truth!”

“Oh really? Are you telling me you actually are in love with him?”

You must not tell lies, a nagging little voice whispers to her ear – one that sounds a lot like Granny’s, and no, I swear, I didn’t break the vase, it was the wind. Emma can lie through her teeth, more often than not, but this one is too big and she refuses to choke on it, refuses to let the words roll on her tongue. She isn’t in love with Graham. The sky is blue. Water is wet. She isn’t in love with Graham, and has no idea why it suddenly seems like one of the deadly sins, why it feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m marrying him anyway.”

“Oh, but it does.”

And suddenly he’s invading her personal space, like a snake ready to swallow a mouse. His hands find her hips, pulling her toward him until her breasts brush against his chest and a shiver runs down her spine. His smirk isn’t a smirk anymore, smaller, softer, even if the mischief still sparkles in his eyes. She won’t be fooled so easily.

“I’m getting to know you, princess. You will need more than a loveless marriage. You need the flame, the passion…” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “The fucking.”

It sounds a little too much like a conversation she had with Ruby, really, not so long ago – it hits all the wrong kinds of buttons, ruffles her feathers alright. She shakes her head, and pushes him away, both hands against his solid chest as a disgusted sneer contorts her mouth.

“You’re a pig.”

“Tell me I’m wrong. Emma, look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”

She squares her shoulders, clenches her jaw, looks up to him. Has he always been that much taller, or does she feel small all of a sudden? Still, she replies, “You’re wrong,” with as much stubbornness as she can muster. Which is a lot – Granny didn’t raise a fool.

“You’re lying.”

She wants to protest. She does, really.

But then he’s kissing her, rough, dirty, one hand on her neck and his lips firm against hers. She pushes him away once more, slapping at his chest with a yelp of surprise and outrage. How dare he? How the fuck dare he! It’s exactly what she wants to say, but she makes the mistake of glancing down, from his eyes to his lips – red and wet and a little swollen, and before she knows it she’s the one kissing him, nails digging into the sensitive skin of his neck.

He hisses, desire and pain, opening his mouth just enough so she can deepen the kiss. His hands are everywhere – her hair, her back, even bold enough to grab at her ass and pull her closer to him. He groans against her lips and she moans into his mouth, needing more, more, more.

It’s the lack of air that has her breaking away from him, far enough to breathe in, close enough that his forehead is pressed against hers, that he noses at her cheek. They’re both panting, and her brain betrays her with one single thought – _he’s right_. Of course he is. She knows he is.

“Emma,” he whispers, voice just as wrecked as her mind.

He tilts his head just so, but she doesn’t leave him the time to dive in for another kiss. No, she pushes him away – when did she grab the lapels of his jacket? – as her eyes widen at her own actions. Did she kiss him? Oh god, she kissed him! She kissed a man who is not her fiancé, and she loved it. That’s the worst part. She loved it, hot and fast and dirty, loved every second of it.

“What the _fuck_?”

He seems dazzled for a second, but then he blinks and it’s gone, smirk back on his lips before she even has time to take a step further back. Well, she does take a step further back, but then he moves closer, and closer, until she finds herself moving backward not to let him invade her space again. Her lips tingle, and she forces herself not to brush her fingers against her mouth.

“I’m engaged – how _dare_ you?”

“I told you, you were lying,” he replies as he moves closer, faster, until he grabs her hips again, pulls her closer again.

“Back _off_!”

“Why? Because you liked it a little too much?”

She laughs, the sound bitter and fake even to her own ears, and pushes him away again. He goes easily, arms raising in a sign of surrender even as he takes another step back on his own – a proof of good faith that means absolutely nothing in that moment.

“Because your tricks aren’t working on me. I _will_ get married and you _won’t_ get the crown.”

“Who’s to say it’s about the crown?”

She looks into his eyes – grave mistake, for she hates what she reads in them, and hates herself even more for the thrill of _something_ running through her veins. His eyes are soft, caring – like he means it, like the kiss, everything, was more to him than just a game, just a trick. Like he kissed her because he wanted to – wanted her, and no one else. It shakes her to the core, just enough that she starts questioning herself, and him, and everything between them. It shakes her to the core and frightens her to no end, whole body shivering at the meaning behind her thoughts. He can’t mean it – he can’t be serious, she refuses to believe him to be serious.

And even if he is, then what? He’s still an asshole, and she still hates him. His unrequited feelings, if feelings there indeed is, are just that – unrequited. Why bother pondering on them, if it doesn’t matter to her in any way, shape, or form? Yeah, exactly.

“This,” she says, pointing the finger between the both of them, “was a one-time thing. You disgust me.”

She turns around and leaves, not waiting for his reaction. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to witness it (lest she changes her mind).


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During those times of great in-canon angst, I come with gifts of even more angst in this chapter. You're welcome, internet.
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who has kudos'd, bookmarked, subscribed to and reviewed this fic so far. I'm really bad at replying to reviews but I appreciate each and every one of your messages. Also your theories to where this story is headed. (Stop killing Graham though, poor darling...)

The scene is oddly familiar.

Emma sits on the couch as she watches her mother pacing in front of her, her footsteps soft against the fabric of the carpet. Neither of them are out of their formal dresses, Emma’s pooling around her on the couch even as she shifts ever so slightly. Heaving a sigh, she looks away, only for her eyes to land on her father, who leans against a wall with his arms folded on his chest. It is the only novelty, compared to the exact same scene that happened after her little encounter with Killian in the broom closet. Everything else is the same – her mother’s anger, Emma’s own frustration. At him, at herself, at the world.

Oh, there’s a difference, one of significance: her mother isn’t yelling. Hell, her mother isn’t saying anything at all, only pacing back and forth in front of Emma – which doesn’t help with Emma’s growing frustration, obviously. She wonders if her mother is doing it on purpose, just to see how long it would take until she snaps.

As always with Emma, it doesn’t take long.

“He tricked me!”

Mary Margaret stops, folds her arms on her chest, and glares at her daughter. David stands a little straighter, as if feeling the tension in the room – hell, one could cut through it with a butter knife. He doesn’t do anything else, though, but Emma can see from the corner of her eye that he will have no problem intervening if things get heated. Which is both really sweet, and really reckless – he’s obviously never seen the Blanchard women yelling at each other’s faces before. Nobody should ever come between them in those moments.

“You followed him away from the garden party and into the maze. What the _fuck_ did you think would happen?”

Emma flinches at her mother’s curse, and the hostility she puts into the words. She knows she fucked up, and maybe on purpose this time. Her mother is right – following Killian away from the party, away from her own fiancé, was a terrible idea to begin with. She shouldn’t have done it but, mostly, she should have known better. What was she expecting, anyway?

Not that she was thinking clearly, obviously. He has that thing about him that makes Emma want to slap him or, well, kiss the living hell out of him. And she hates herself for it, hates the effect he has on her and how badly it always ends. She tells herself that it is only a matter of weeks now, and then everything will be over but – but it doesn’t change the fact that it is not over now, and she has to own up to what she has done.

“What your mother wants to say is –”

Both of them glower at him.

David takes a step back.

“What _I want to say is_ , this is your second mistake this summer. You’re the crown princess; you’re not allowed to make mistakes. Especially not in public.” Emma makes for opening her mouth, but Mary Margaret goes on, “You are part of the royal family, and it does come with responsibilities. Especially when you have an audience. I will not tolerate you tarnishing this family’s reputation. Am I understood?”

Emma turns her head, refusing to look at her mother in the eyes – she avoids looking at her father, too, while she’s at it. She clenches her jaw, both not to nibble on her lip and not to snap back at her mother. Something tells her it would only add fuel to the fire, anyway.

“Am I understood?” her mother insists.

Emma doesn’t add fuel to the fire.

She pours an entire can of gasoline on the fire.

“No, mother, you are not.” She glares back at her mother, and stands up. “If you wanted me to be the perfect little princess I can’t be right now, guess what? You should have raised me to be one. But you didn’t, so now you’re stuck with me, and I’m tired of never living up to your expectations. Just as I am tired of having to live under the same roof as the guy who is making my life a living hell right now. So no, mother, you are not understood!”

“Emma, we’re only…”

She turns to face her father, one hand on her hip while she points to him with the finger of the other hand. The words are tumbling out of her mouth before she can swallow them down, the rage within her bubbling out painfully.

“No. You don’t get to tell me what to do when you only met me three days ago. And you,” she turns, points to her mother, “You don’t get to tell me what to do when you didn’t even want me in the first place.”

They both open their mouth to react – her mother looking furious, her father devastated – but she doesn’t wait for them to even think of a reply. Instead, she turns around and leaves her mother’s quarters, as fast as possible. She even slams the door on her way out, to make a statement.

Once in the hallway, she wipes away the tears.

 

…

 

Ruby is lying in bed with a magazine when Emma enters her room, out of her dress and back to her regular clothes. Emma decides to do the same, reaching under her arm to pull down the zipper and slip out of her dress. She kicks her heels away, before she grabs the first clothes she finds – an old t-shit and shorts that have seen a better day – and goes to bed with Ruby.

Emma puts her head on her best friend’s shoulder, and lets her pet her hair for a few minutes. Ruby stays silent, but there is no doubt that she saw the drying tears on Emma’s cheeks. Hell, she probably even heard the argument down the hall; they weren’t exactly keeping inside voices, after all. Still, Ruby knows better than to say anything in those moments – Emma likes being quiet when she’s upset, if only to calm herself down and to deal with her thoughts.

But, truth is, Emma doesn’t know what to think. It’s too much, all of a sudden, and mostly she finds herself mourning the life she had in Boston – Her Highness Emmaline Blanchard finds herself mourning Emma Swan, the teenager girl working at the diner when she wasn’t at school. It was an easier life, back then, only stressing out over the next maths exam and laughing at Ruby flirting with customers. She misses that life, sometimes. Today more than ever.

“You kissed him, didn’t you?”

There is no judgement in Ruby’s voice, only curiosity laced with worry. Emma heaves a sigh as the memories of the kiss come back to her – she doesn’t even fight them, this time, there is no point.

“He–” She stopped. Doesn’t bother with the semantics. “Yeah, we did.”

Ruby hums softly, but doesn’t comment. For that, and so much more, Emma is grateful. She really doesn’t feel like analysing the scene with Ruby anyway, the way they usually do. This isn’t a usual occurrence, after all, so they don’t treat it as such. Instead, Emma relishes in the gravity of the situation, and in the guilt forming at the back of her throat – guilt at breaking Graham’s trust, guilt at yelling at her parents.

They didn’t deserve her yelling, or her fury. Her mother is severe, most of the time, but Emma knows it comes with being the queen. She is a queen, first, and a mother second, and it’s hard sometimes to remember those priorities – to remember the pressure on her mother’s shoulders, and how Emma adds to the weight of it by being reckless, or immature. (Or both.)

“Are people whispering yet?”

“Not really, no.” Ruby pauses, then chuckles a little. “Eric created a diversion by proposing. Ariel was hysterical, it was awesome. I filmed it.”

A small, tentative smile, tugs up Emma’s lips. If she hadn’t been too busy arguing with Killian (and then not-arguing with Killian), perhaps she would have heard Ariel’s high-pitched screams. There probably are a hundred texts from the redhead waiting to be read on Emma’s phone, but she really doesn’t feel like checking now.

“Was about time,” is all she says, before snuggling closer to Ruby.

It always reminds her of when they were younger, hiding together under the blankets after whispering horror stories for hours – too afraid to sleep alone while every shadow turned into a monster. The monsters disappeared a long time ago, but not the comfort Emma can get in her almost-sister’s embrace. The kind of comfort you can’t force, the one that comes from years of trust and love.

The kind she’ll never have with her own mother, as she so elegantly yelled it at her face.

She’ll have to apologize – to her mother, her father, Graham. To Eric, too, for forcing him to improvise a proposal out of loyalty toward her. Just thinking about it makes her sick in the stomach, and Emma closes her eyes to the world spinning around her. Can one fall sick over their own sins? She feels like she may be.

They’ve both settled back into silence, Emma toying with the idea of taking a nap to avoid her responsibilities for a little while longer, when an insistent knock on the door startles them both. They glance at each other with a shrug, before Ruby heaves a sigh as she sits up. She rolls her eyes for good measure, as if refraining herself from cursing at whoever is at the door, and lazily paddles her way across the room, socked feet sliding against the wooden floor.

Emma follows her with her eyes, and so notices the way Ruby’s entire body tenses when she opens the door. She looks ready for battle – hell, she looks like a wolf who’s about to kill, one bite to the jugular. Emma also hears the curse when it indeed escapes her lips this time.

(Three guesses as to who is at the door, and the first two don’t count.)

“Seriously?” Ruby hisses at his face. Small consolation. “Get out of here.”

It takes all of Emma’s willpower, as well as a good chunk of her patience, to get out of bed and follow in Ruby’s steps. But then, Ruby is already threatening Killian, something about a long, painful death before dumping his body in international waters. Well, not really. But a girl can dream.

She puts her hand on Ruby’s forearm, “It’s okay, Rubs.”

“No, it _isn’t_!”

Killian looks perfectly scolded – not to mention frightened, if his widening eyes are anything to go by. Still, Emma can’t even take pleasure in his misery, when she’s wallowing in her own. So instead, she nudges Ruby away from the door with a pointed look. Thankfully, she gets the message and, after yet another glare and a finger pointed Killian’s way (he does stare warily at her long nails), she goes back to bed without another word. To eavesdrop to her heart’s content, no doubt.

“What,” Emma says as she focuses back on Killian, voice as flat as can be. She even raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and forces herself not to smirk when he squirms on the spot, hand raising up to scratch the spot behind his ear. “If you’re here to gloat, save your breath.”

“I’m not here to gloat!” His voice is one octave higher, which. Emma curses herself for even noticing, but he looks so offended all of a sudden that she can’t not notice. And then he’s bashful again, and the whiplash is giving her a headache already. “I’m here to apologize.”

“To what?”

She must have heard wrong. There is no way in hell the Lord Doucheface she’s come to know would apologize to her – especially when he didn’t look so apologetic about manipulating her into kissing him. But then Emma remembers the Killian who tried to comfort her after she fell off her horse, and the Killian who played soccer with a band of orphans, and she doesn’t know anymore. Who is he? Does she even want to know?

Of course, she doesn’t.

(Of course?)

“To apologize,” he says again, with a nod – to her or to himself, maybe. “My behaviour was ungentlemanly this afternoon. You are engaged. You are – uninterested. I shouldn’t have been so childish about it.”

“There was nothing childish about that kiss.”

Emma’s eyes widen at her own words, and she curses herself once more. She is angry at him, she reminds herself, she is angry at him and she doesn’t like him and, more than anything else, she shouldn’t fraternize with the enemy. Jokes are prohibited. Jokes with a flirtatious edge to them, even accidently, are more than prohibited.

Killian, he – he doesn’t smile, exactly, but the corner of his mouth tugs up a little, and he looks away as he scratches behind his ear once more. He’s nervous, Emma realises – he is nervous, and she has no idea why. He got under her skin and would have ruined her future, as a wife and thus as a queen, if someone had caught them in the act. Nothing about his attitude makes sense, and Emma’s blossoming headache prevents her from overanalysing the situation.

“Still. I am sorry, and I wanted you to know. It doesn’t change my actions but–”

“Why are you doing this?”

She catches him off guard, his widening eyes matching her own now. She really does need to think before she speaks – and acts, come to think about it. It has led her into too much trouble as it is, and it is leading her into muddy waters now. Especially with the way Killian raises an eyebrow, obviously confused at her question. And, well, she can’t just leave it at it, now, can she?

“Why are you being such a dickhead one minute and then being nice? Do you know how upsetting it is? Can’t you just be a dickhead all the time?”

He does smile this time, small and secretive and – it changes his face, really. It makes his features softer, somehow, and Emma doesn’t feel like clawing his face anymore. He looks less like his aunt that way, more like the glimpses of himself he offered during their visit to the orphanage. Emma doesn’t want to know how different things could have been, if he’d shown this side of himself from the very beginning – things would have been more dangerous, without a shadow of a doubt.

“I’ll do my best to be at my most dickheadish from now on, Your Highness.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait.”

Killian chuckles, the sound low and brief, before he nods as he takes a few steps back. His hands slide in the back pockets of his jeans, and he looks down the hallway while he shifts his weight from heels to soles. He’s _stalling_ , and the thought alone is baffling to Emma. She almost laughs at how ridiculous the entire thing is, until she remembers that she still is very much upset at him, and at herself.

Especially since he comes back closer a few moments later, a man on a mission as he stops only inches away from her and stares right into her eyes. There is a newfound determination in his gaze, one that wasn’t there only seconds before when he was acting like the boy who got caught with the hand in the cookie jar.

“I meant it, about the kiss,” he says, the determination in his voice matching the one in his eyes. “It wasn’t about the crown. It was, at first; I would seduce you, break you heart, and win the crown. It was the plan, and I was focused on following the plan… That is – until I met you.”

He knocks the air off her lungs, and for a moment Emma is left staring at him, mouth slightly ajar. She doesn’t know what to answer. She doesn’t know if there is anything to answer at all. It leaves her speechless, and dumbfounded, and all she can do is stare and stare. It is one thing to guess, and another thing for him to declare his feelings for her like it is the easiest thing in the world. How anyone can wear their heart on their sleeve is beyond Emma’s understanding.

It must read on her face, for Killian offers her yet another nod, and the ghost of a smile, before he takes his leave. She watches him go until he disappears around the corner.

Ruby clears her throat, startling her.

“Shut up,” Emma says as she closes the door.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She rolls her eyes, even as she paddles her way back to bed, falls head first on the mattress. She doesn’t need to look up to feel the smirk on Ruby’s mouth, or the knowing gleam in her eyes – they know each other by heart, Emma can guess her best friend’s reactions all too easily. And, really, she isn’t in the mood for Ruby’s smugness, or witty lines, or something of the like. She isn’t in the mood for anything, period, beside maybe a bottle of rum and twelve hours of sleep. That does sound heavenly.

“All I’m saying is, in an alternate universe, you are going at it like rabbits.”

Oh, and in the mood for knocking the living daylights out of Ruby, too. Not because she has a point. Because she doesn’t. There isn’t a single universe where Emma is attracted by Killian, in any way, shape or form. No. Nope. Definitely not happening, in this reality or another. She refuses to believe any version of her could ever feel more than hatred toward Killian Jones. Pity, at the very best. But fondness? Attraction? Thank you, but no thank you.

“Are you having a mental breakdown right now?”

Emma’s muffled “No” as she speaks into the blanket is all Ruby needs to burst into laughter, reaching out to pet the princess’s hair with all the condescension one can pour in such a gesture. Well, at least Emma is convincing herself, even if she’s not fooling anybody else. Small victories, and all that.


	15. Chapter 15

When she was a teenager, Emma would always go to the pier to soothe her raging thoughts. There was something comforting about the sea and, even if she couldn’t dip her feet in the icy water, she would sit and watch the boats, soaking in the salty air and the cries of seagulls. She misses the ocean, now – the Mediterranean Sea is too calm, in comparison, the waves too weak, the water too blue. There is nothing comforting about it, so she discards it entirely.

How she ends up at her father’s stables is a mystery to her.

The staff members here don’t bat an eye at her presence, don’t even question her – they leave her in peace as she walks toward the stable of the horse her father said was hers now. It feels weird, after so many years of arguing with Granny because she wouldn’t even allow them to have a puppy, but Emma knows it mostly means ‘this one fits you, come and ride whenever you want’. Or have time. Or when you need help calming down.

Emma walks the horse out of his stable, and fumbles for long seconds to make the knot that will secure him to the hook on the wall – David showed her, but she still struggles. Then she grabs a brush, and starts to work on the dust on the animal’s coat. The motions are repetitive enough that they lull her a little, just enough that she no longer dwells on her cloudy thoughts. Exactly what she needed, exactly why she came here in the first place.

“Emma?”

She startles, fingers tightening their hold around the brush, shoulder straightening. It was stupid of her to hope her father wouldn’t be here today but – she really was hoping he wouldn’t be here today. That she could go on a little while longer without having to face him, especially after yesterday, especially since her mother has been giving her the silent treatment all day long.

“What are you doing here?”

Repressing a sigh, Emma turns to face her father. He’s standing a few feet away from her, in his riding clothes, hair ruffled by the helmet he no longer wears. He tilts his head to the side when their eyes meet, his full of worry and questions he doesn’t dare ask. She remembers the way she had yelled at him the previous day, cheeks turning a crimson red with the shame settling deep within her.

“I can leave if you –”

“No! No, of course not. You’re always welcome to stay.”

She nods, swallowing around the knot in her throat, and purposefully avoids his gaze. She waits a few more seconds before turning around and going back to her grooming, hoping against hope that he will take the hint. But it would be not knowing the Blanchard-Nolans very well, and so Emma can’t even find it in herself to be surprised when her father grabs a brush and comes to stand next to her.

He doesn’t force a conversation on her, though, for which she is grateful – she wouldn’t even know where to begin. Well, an apology seems like a good way to start, but the words feel weak when she thinks of them. Nothing she could ever say would be enough, in comparison to what she threw in her parents’ faces yesterday.

“Do you –” she starts, before her hesitation has her choking on the words. She takes a deeper breath, and wets her lips. “Do you remember when you argued with her, the first summer I was there?”

Emma isn’t looking at him, but she notices the way his hand stills in its motions, He doesn’t move for a few seconds before starting again, and she feels more than sees his nod, his smile. “I do. I wasn’t aware you were there.”

“I was eavesdropping,” she explains, a small tentative smile tugging up her lips. “You said – you said if you’d known…”

If he’d known of her existence, he would have raised her. If he’d known, she would have grown up with a father, never wondering why her parents loved her so little that they gave her to Granny and never visited again. She blinks, twice, relief coursing through her veins when the tears don’t fall.

“I would have been your father, yes.”

Emma bites down on her bottom lip, letting out a shuddering breath. When she glances his way, he’s already staring at her and – it’s too much, everything always seems to be too much with him. Emma never had a father, and she doesn’t know how to act around David most of the time. He’s too perfect, too good for her, and she always wonders when the second shoe will drop, where’s the trick. People are never that caring, that selfless. Not with her, not without wanting anything in return.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her bottom lip trembling.

He sighs a “Come here,” and pulls her toward him before she even has time to react. Emma accepts the hug for what it is, finding more comfort in it that she ever would have with Boston’s pier. She snuggles closer to him, his arms tightening their hold on her, one of his hand settling on the back of her head.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but you truly take after her.”

Emma snorts through her nose, but the words don’t sound that much like an insult anymore. It’s not exactly a praise yet, either, but she does understand where her father is coming from with this. Both Blanchard women chose duty over love, when it came to the crown, and both fucked up big time along the way – not to mention, they both are too proud and stubborn to actually admit it out loud. As far as praises go, being her mother’s daughter isn’t the worst one can give.

“I know,” is all she replies, before stepping back. She trades the brush for a comb, and moves closer to her horse’s head so she can untangle the knots in his mane. It’s slow, meticulous work, and it would take her mind off of things if her father weren’t standing right next to her. It makes her a little on edge, neck stiff with the weight of his gaze – and, well, she’s her father’s daughter too, so it’s only a matter of seconds before he just blurts out whatever is on his mind.

“You know how you’re supposed to learn from your elders?”

The sigh escapes her, which is always better than bursting into laughter. She turns her head, if only to offer her father the raised eyebrow and unimpressed look he deserves because – really? That’s how he wants to broach the subject?

“Is it when you tell me she made a mistake so I should do better and not make the mistake?”

Oh, she takes after him for the unimpressed stare. Awesome.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” He rolls his eyes, for good measure. “You mother and I, we – we were young, and impressionable. I married Kathryn because it was expected of me, and I’ve regretted it for years. I don’t want you to regret it. I don’t want you to look back on your life in a few years, and hate on us for forcing this on you.”

“But it’s my choice,” she replies, but it sounds weak even to her own ears.

Is it, really? If her status as the rightful heir to the throne hadn’t been threatened by Killian, would she have agreed to an arranged marriage? Would she have fought against that idea, if the ultimatum hadn’t been set? Probably, yes. Definitely, even. But her pride, not to mention her competitiveness and her possessiveness got in the way when Killian did. All is fair in love and war, and giving up on love to win this war seemed like a good idea, then.

Now…

Now, not anymore.

“And it’s a very noble choice,” David replies, smiling kindly. “But I would be a terrible father if I didn’t tell you what a terrible choice it is, too. Your happiness in on the line here.”

“I’m happy.”

Fake it until you make it, or so they say. But, really, Emma is happy – she has a mother, and a father, and a best friend who all love her. She’ll never have to worry about money, or a job, and she has a wonderful fiancé, all things considered. Her life is pretty idyllic, and she’s grateful, she truly is. You don’t look a gifted horse in the mouth, especially not when it comes in the shape of a freaking unicorn.

So, of course, Emma digs her heels in, because that’s what she does. Offence is the best defence, after all. Also, her father makes it easy, so. “Afraid I’m going to be pining for twenty years until I realise how stupid I was because my soulmate was pining too all along?”

“So you’re admitting to the pining?”

She’s gobsmacked.

Her mouth opens in surprise, the words dying on her tongue before she even thinks of them, and her cheeks turns the darkest shade of red known to mankind. She blinks at her father, twice, before she quickly looks away, focusing back on her horse’s mane. Her face stays flushed, though, and there is no ignoring – whatever that is. She can acknowledge it’s here, without analysing it. It’s better off that way, after all.

“That’s not what I meant,” she mumbles, pitifully, but the harm is done already. There is no going back from there, not when her body so easily betrayed her mind – there is no going back from the conclusion her father will draw, has every right to draw. Emma can’t even be upset about it, at this point.

(“Until I met you.”)

(No.)

“Would it be so terrible if you did?”

The question is genuine, no a hint of teasing or sarcasm in his voice. Emma’s fingers still in the horse’s mane as she ponders – were the situation different, she probably wouldn’t have minded Killian flirting with her, no matter how insufferable it can be at times. But the situation isn’t different, and she can’t go on with only ‘what ifs’ and ‘could have beens’. There is no point to that kind of thinking, and it doesn’t help with her current problems.

“Why do you like him so much?” she asks instead, half to deflect and half because she is curious about the answer. David didn’t strike her as someone who knew Killian before all of this mess happened, but maybe she was wrong on the subject.

He shrugs, before he replies, “Don’t get me wrong, I like Graham and I think he would make a good husband. You chose wisely. But you chose with your head, not your heart. And I think you heart doesn’t agree anymore.” Emma opens her mouth, but her father doesn’t let her protest. “I’ve seen them both with you. Those boys adore you. But if I had to give you one fatherly advice, it would be to follow your heart, not your head.”

Her mouth closes shut before she purses her lips in a pensive pout. Her fingers start working again, her horse’s mane now free of knots as she pulls it into a long braid, from poll to withers. One she’s done, she scratches the horse’s neck, and heaves a sigh. ‘It’s not easy being queen,’ a little voice taunts her, and Emma all too heartedly agrees. Well, no. Being queen seems to be the easy part. Everything that comes with the title, on the other hand, feels like hell.

“He likes me,” she says, the ‘too’ burning her lips even if she doesn’t add it at the end. She closes her eyes and sees his, blue and open, hopeful, caring. She closes her eyes, and shudders.

“If he really did, wouldn’t he give up on the crown for you?”

Once more, Emma remains silent, pondering. Would he? They’ve only known each other for a few weeks, and have barely interacted as it is – even if he likes her, he can’t have developed deeper feelings for her. (Yet?) Emma doesn’t kid herself with believing anyone would ever give up on a higher goal for her, not when so many have let her down in the past, and especially not when it sounds like nothing more than some love at first sight bullshit she doesn’t even believe. And, well, there is the matter of his aunt, breathing down his neck.

Is she finding excuses for him by thinking of Zelena?

No, it can’t be.

What she is doing is thinking too much about it, period. It doesn’t do well to dwell on things you can’t have, and scenarios that can’t happen. She feels like a toddler on the verge of throwing a tantrum because she wanted the blue candy, not the green one, and it’s not fair to anyone.

(Maybe she just needs to sleep on it.)

Her father clears his throat then and, when Emma turns her head, it’s to see his ears turning a darkest shade pink as he most definitely avoids looking at her. He shifts from one foot to the other, before he says, “So about the pining…”

The giggle bubbles out of Emma before she even knows it’s coming – she puts both her hands on her mouth, but the laughter won’t stop, and her father now sends her an affronted look that only makes matters worse. But he must understand, too, how ridiculous the situation is, for a self-deprecating smile curls up his lips as he shakes his head, a little shamefully.

“I can’t believe it!” she says, pushing him away from her with one hand on his shoulder. “Just talk to her, dad!”

 

…

 

Her knuckles knock softly against the heavy wood of the door, just in case she is interrupting an important meeting. Emma nibbles on her bottom lip, weight shifting from one foot to the other, as she waits for the muffled ‘come in!’ that comes a few seconds later. She pushes the door open, her steps slow and tentative as she enters her mother’s office and closes the door behind her. It creaks a little, and she winces.

“Emma,” is all her mother says, impressive in the perfect lack of emotions she pours in that one name. She looks up from the file she was working on, fountain pen stuck between two fingers and unimpressed gaze settling on her daughter.

Emma forces herself not to fidget again. “I wanted to apologize. For yesterday. And, well, everything.”

Her mother sighs as she puts the fountain pen down and rubs the bridge of her nose with two fingers. It’s not offensive, just the reaction of someone exhausted – Emma can relate. The queen stands up then, motioning to one of the two chairs by the other side of the desk before she moves to sit in the second one. Emma can’t move fast enough to sit, too.

“It seems like every time you and I take a step forwards, it is immediately followed by two steps back. And you don’t have to shoulder the blame alone, it’s my fault too.”

Emma is left speechless, mouth slightly ajar, before she manages a “Thanks” weak of all substance. She has no idea how to react to her mother admitting to her fault, the concept so foreign to her in its novelty – her father was right, they truly are too proud and stubborn for their own good.

“I also wanted to tell you that I understand what you are going through. And I trust you enough to know that, if it comes to it, you will know which choice is the best to make.”

Emma swallows around the knot in her throat, looking down at her folded hands on her lap. It is the first time she has been given a real choice in the matter even since everything started – everything from the moment she was sixteen, and discovered that the blood running in her veins was blue. Oh, she had been given a choice back then too, but she knew it was only the illusion of a choice. She knew she had to accept, that there was no way around it.

But now, with sadness and regret in her mother’s eyes, with her parents’ trust by her side, Emma does believe she has a saying in her own decisions. A terrifying thought, of course – all the more chances to fuck things up for good. But at least it will be her disaster to deal with, at least she will have no one else to blame but herself. And. It’s a start, isn’t it?

“Thank you,” she says again, and means it this time.

When she looks up, her mother is smiling, tender and a little melancholic. She – she doesn’t look old, per se, but she looks tired, both physically and mentally, like the events of the past weeks are finally taking their toll on her. Or perhaps like she’s no longer hiding it – in this life of royalty and public gaze, masks are barely ever down.

“And I know we don’t have this kind of relationship, but you can always talk to me about it if you want. I won’t be judgmental about it. At least I will try not to.”

A smile tentatively curls up Emma’s lips, as she shares what could be a knowing look with her mother – it’s new, too, feeling like they can share something more than just arguments and barely repressed bitterness. So she leans forward, if only to squeeze her mother’s hand for a brief moment, before she stands up. Those quiet moments are to be cherished, and Emma doesn’t want to tarnish this one by staying longer than necessary. Tiny steps, and all that.

It is only when she reaches the door, her back to her mother, that Mary Margaret says, “I’m proud of you, darling.”

Her smile stays on her lips until she’s back in her room.


	16. Chapter 16

Emma slips into her shoes, happy to not be wearing heels for once – she doesn’t mind most of the time, but knows today she will be on her feet quite a lot and doesn’t want them to be aching before lunch time. All in all, her outfit of the day is quite comfortable, as well as making her look like an everyday-woman; a pair of skinny jeans and a designer jacket over a simple marinière – everything to make her look like the girl from Boston she hasn’t been in a very long time, not that Emma has any room to complain about that. It makes sense for what they will do today, and she will take jeans over uncomfortable dresses any time.

She checks her hair in the mirror one last time before she grabs her phone and leaves her room, only to reach the door opposite hers in the hallway. She doesn’t knock, doesn’t need to, and instead enters without having been invited, looking down at her texts while she does so.

“Rubs, are you ready? We’re leaving in about – oh _wow_.”

Ruby stands in front of her own mirror, pulling the last touches of liner over her eyes – she looks so different today, leather pants and a red top, sky-high heels. She also looks annoyed, if the way she quirks an eyebrow in Emma’s direction is anything to go by. And, well, she looks like she’s ready to go on a date, which could make sense if they weren’t also about to go spend the day at the orphanage, like they’ve planned.

“I told you I’m not coming,” she simply states, before going back to fixing her makeup.

“What do you mean you’re not coming?”

Ruby sighs, loud and even more annoyed than before, and puts her eyeliner to the side as she steps away from her mirror. She raises one eyebrow as she takes Emma in, before rolling her eyes and putting her hands on her lips.

“Have you listened to anything I said these past two weeks, or were you too busy finding a way to break it to Graham you’re in love with another man?”

Emma splutters the beginning of an answer, cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson and burning her skin as she tries to come up with some kind of justification. Or even denial, really. But the words don’t come, and she hates that silence means consent in that particular instance. Especially with the smirk tugging up one corner of Ruby’s red lips, the unsaid gotcha hanging in the air between them.

“I’m not in love with Killian,” Emma finds herself saying a good thirty seconds too late, her voice lacking heat or even credibility. The words fall flat, and Ruby obviously isn’t fooled in the slightest – not that Emma expected her to be, but oh well.

“And I’m not in love with Mulan, but maybe I’ll get there eventually.”

Emma makes for replying, but the words die on her tongue as Ruby’s statement finally registers in her brain, and instead a goofy smile settles on her lips as she walks into the room to flop down on the couch. She blinks up at her best friend, a small laugh bubbling out of her all of a sudden.

“You’re going out with Mulan.”

Ruby tries to be upset for a couple of seconds – which would be entirely deserved, come to think about it, Emma has no idea how she managed to tune down her best friend so much that she would miss that big a development in her life. She’s been so busy with her duties and so worried about, well, everything she could find to worry about, that Emma has more than neglected Ruby during the last couple of weeks.

Ruby, whose lips curl up into a grin as she sits down next to Emma, almost bouncing as she does so. Only then Emma notices how well dressed she is – even more so than usual, which means a lot with Ruby – and how easy her smiles seem to be all of a sudden. How could she miss that? Why did she miss that?

“I am, yes!”

Emma knew, somewhat, that Mulan is into girls, if only because Mulan had told her to explain the lingering awkwardness between her and Aurora – very much straight Aurora – when she first moved to Eala and started making friends. But Ariel and Eric were already a couple then, and all of her other friends were single and it feels weird, in a way, to think of them in terms of not-single-anymore. Especially Ruby, whom Emma knows not to be that interested in a relationship to begin with.

Well, such a statement is to be used with a past tense now, if Ruby’s immaculate outfit and the way she seems both nervous and excited at once are anything to go by. Ruby, who is apparently settling in Eala better than Emma ever could – it’s a little unfair for Emma to feel a pang of jealousy toward her best friend, for how easy she has it, and she feels guilty only seconds later.

“You really do like her,” she says, when she notices the grin on Ruby’s lips – grin that brightens even more at her words.

Ruby nods, too, strands of black hair falling in front of her eyes, but there is something sincere behind the bubbly excitement, and she sobers down just enough to look at Emma in the eyes. “I really do.”

Emma smiles then, even if some of the jealousy lingers – Ruby gets to choose who she dates, Ruby gets to be happy with someone she really does like and is attracted to. Of course it’s not fair, because Emma knows all too well how much Ruby suffered from coming out when they were teenagers, and how it took a toll on her, made her a little more closed-off, a little warier of people. But, still, she envies Ruby’s freedom, all of a sudden – it’s not something Emma has thought about a lot, but she does now and –

“Hey, are you okay?” Ruby asks, hand brushing against Emma’s forearm.

Emma shakes her head, smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m – I’m really happy for you.”

And if the smile is a little forced, the feelings behind it a little wrong – neither Emma nor Ruby is going to point it out, really. And she is speaking the truth anyway; it’s not because her duties won over her own happiness that she can’t be happy for her friends, after all.

“Mad at you for throwing me to the wolves but…”

“Oh come on!” Ruby replies, and she slaps Emma’s arm instead of petting it this time. “I helped you write that speech, it can only go well!”

Emma wouldn’t go that far, especially not with her track record of the summer – her next fuck-up is only a day away, at this point. So, yes, the speech is good and she practised it all night long yesterday, but it still would have made her feel better to know Ruby would be there – to see her best friend in the crowd, like when they were teenagers and would only look at the other when they had an oral presentation at school.

“If something happens, I’m blaming you and Mulan.”

Ruby simply offers her one of her wolfish grins.

 

…

 

Emma thanks every deity on this planet and the others that she is not wearing heels when her legs turn to jelly as she has to stand in front of a microphone – and in front of a horde of journalists, of course. Despite being the official crown princess for five years now, she has very little experience with public speeches, and finds herself as nervous as the day she announced that, yes, she was Mary Margaret’s daughter and, as such, accepted the title she was born to wear. She was sixteen then, and nothing much has changed since – her throat is still dry, her stomach in knots and, yes, her damn legs barely even hold her to begin with.

She clears her throat as she looks to the left, sees her mother’s reassuring smile and the thumb up she hides from the camera. That at least makes Emma smile, as well as the sight of the children next to her, and Wendy standing a little to the side. Most of the kids are grinning, happy to be noticed for once in their lives, and Henry waves a little at her, his smile more reassuring than excited.

So Emma takes a deep breath as she turns back to the journalist, and takes a step closer to the microphone. She wets her lips, before she starts, “As you may know, I grew up without my parents. I won’t sugar-coat this for you, it was difficult for me as a child to deal with that, and to deal with the fact that I wasn’t loved or wanted. It takes a toll on a child, those thoughts, as well as the taunts of the classmates and the judgmental looks of adults. It is hard, and it leaves its marks on you. I was lucky enough to find my mother again as a teenager, and for my mother to accept me despite our years apart. I was lucky enough to find a mother who loved me, and wanted me in her life after all.”

Emma swallows around the knot in her throat, and glances at Mary Margaret once more – the Queen’s eyes are misty and slightly rimmed with red, just enough to keep her composure. Emma has no doubt the cameras will catch it, just like they will catch her own wet eyes, just like they will record the hoarseness in her voice.

“Not all orphans have this chance,” she goes on, focusing back on the microphone in front of her. “Mist Haven’s Orphanage is doing its best to offer those children a place to stay, a safe haven and access to a good education. Sadly, it is not enough. Sadly, the orphanage needs help to receive more children and to make sure they grow up into happy and healthy human beings. They need your help, our help. That’s why I have decided to create The Foundation of Mist Haven’s Orphanage. All the money will go into improving the building as well as the lives of the children. We invite you to donate if you can, money as well as toys, books and other sources of entertainment to the orphanage. I am also working alongside Katheryn Midas to make the laws on adoption more flexible and the adoption processes easier and faster for everyone, so that the children can find a permanent home more easily. We thus invite you to open your homes and your hearts to those children if you can, as to make their lives better and happier. Thank you so much.”

She nods and steps back, under the applauses of the crowd – and of the children, clapping and cheering even if most of them probably didn’t understand her entire speech anyway. They do know what it is about, if only because it was explained to them and they were asked to give a list of things they would like to change about the orphanage. (‘Bigger TV’ and ‘more toys’ obviously on top of said list.)

Emma’s speech is followed by a few words from Wendy, thanking her and potential patrons for their generosity as well as listing a few items the orphanage needs right now – sadly, no TV, but the complete list can be found on the orphanage’s website if people are interested. A few questions follow, both Wendy and Emma replying, before they go back inside.

Emma has time to catch her breath for a few minutes only before the beginning of the charity gala – not so much a gala as a simple party, the right side of fancy while still showing rich people the orphanage does indeed need money. Everything is good to play on aristocrats’ need to feel better about themselves by giving money to the poorer, after all. That’s why the gala is taking place in the orphanage in the first play, to take away the glamour and show the real world to those snobs.

Emma heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass to pour some cold water she gulps down in one second. She toys with the idea of downing a second drink, but the fear of a pee run gets the better of her and she leans against the sink instead, taking a deep breath.

“They’re looking for you,” comes a voice to her right, startling her.

Emma recognizes the girl from her first visit to the orphanage, Gretel, and she smiles at heras she stands straighter. Actually, her smile turns a little more wicked as she takes in the girl in front of her and, when Emma moves closer, she puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Do you want to make 20€ easily?” she asks, and the girl beams at her.

 

…

 

She finds Graham the moment she enters the main room, and it would be lying to say it doesn’t get easier from there – especially since he hands her a flute of champagne and wraps an arm around her waist, the solidness of his body anchoring her to the here and there. They smile, and talk, and push the right buttons of those other noblemen in front of them, inviting this or that orphan to join in on the conversation when needed.

Emma would feel guilty about using the kids in such a manner, but she reminds herself that it is for a good cause, and beams at people when they assure her they will give some money to her charity. It’s exhausting, of course, this fake cheerfulness she has to keep at all times, but Emma feels useful for the first times in weeks – feels like what she is doing matters, for once – and so she will take exhaustion over any bad feelings right now.

She is in the middle of a conversation with Frederick Midas – more because she needs a break than because she wants his money, especially with how much his wife is doing already – when Gretel squeezes in next to her, hands behind her back and false-innocent grin on her lips. Emma glances away to see Killian standing within earshot, then looks back at the girl and winks. Gretel’s grin only grows bigger.

“Graham, Frederick, this is Gretel, one of the children who live here.”

“Nice to meet you,” Gretel says to Frederick, before she turns to Graham. Her voice rises a little higher, as she says, “And you. You’re even more handsome than in the pictures!”

Emma presses a hand to her mouth not to laugh out loud, but she wouldn’t have needed to anyway, what with Graham barking out a laugh and Killian groaning loudly a few feet away from them. It’s really hard not to smirk proudly at him, even harder to subtly reach in the pocket of her jeans to give Gretel the 20€ note without anybody noticing – at least both Graham and Frederick are too busy laughing to notice, there’s that.

Graham, who pulls her even closer to him and kisses her temple, grinning against her as he whispers to her ear, “You truly are a dangerous enemy to have.”

Emma grins, and pats his chest a little. “Good thing I’m on your side, then.”

Graham wrinkles his nose at her, obviously amused and charmed – yeah, nothing like openly mocking a man’s rival by using a kid to flatter said man’s ego – and Emma grins up at him. Her hand still lays on his chest, and she idly notices how couple-y they must look like right now, sharing a joke and knowing grins. It would make for perfect candid pictures, which probably isn’t the best thought to have when you’re sharing a moment with your fiancé but –

Someone clears their throat, and the both of them startle, only to see Killian standing next to them. His grin is as fake as the ones Emma has been trading all afternoon long, and a little bittersweet too – or perhaps it’s just a trick of the light, who knows. He holds his hand out for Graham to shake, something that has never happened before – they’ve been polite, as far as Emma can tell, but never exceedingly friendly, never sharing more words than is truly necessary.

“I admit defeat once and for all, your good looks exceed mine by a long shot.”

Still leaning against Graham’s chest, Emma feels the way his body tenses ever so slightly as his hand shakes Killian’s. It’s subtle, really, and she would have missed it if she wasn’t literally pressed to him from shoulder to hip, but it’s there – some alpha male bullshit she can’t even be mad about, for Killian indeed crossed a line when it comes to Emma. She still hasn’t talked to Graham about it yet, taking the coward way about it, but something tells her he will bring it back on the table soon enough, and it will be well-deserved.

“Your Highness,” Killian adds, with a respectful nod her way – his version of a bow, perhaps. “I hope your charity will be happy with the donation I have made.”

Of course he would – he’s as much of an orphan as she is, after all, and he has enough money to throw away so he might as well do it right for once. Still, it pleases her more than it should, knowing he of all people approves of her work and her choices – it pleases her more than any big check anyone in the room could write. And it’s wrong, of course it is, but Ruby’s words keep playing in her head, _maybe I’ll get there eventually_ , over and over again like a mad woman’s mantras.

She doesn’t need to think about this now. She doesn’t need to think about _eventually_ and how inappropriate it is at the end of such a statement – no, she isn’t there yet. She refuses to be there yet, to be there at all at any point in time.

“Emmaline!”

It takes a few seconds, as well as a nudge from Graham, for Emma to react to the call of her own name – she still isn’t used to being called her full name, after all – and to turn her head and find her mother a few feet away from her. The Queen gestures for her to come closer, and Emma spares a last glance for the two men by her side before she does so.

“Is everything alright?” her mother asks once Emma is next to her, low enough not to be heard by anyone else. She glances pointedly at Graham and Killian, before focusing back on Emma.

“You mean, with those two peacocks over there?”

That manages to make Mary Margaret smile, even if she hides her amusement with a sip of champagne and a roll of the eyes. Emma isn’t fooled, though, mostly because it’s the kind of thing she would do too to hide her true feelings. Still, she understands her mother’s wariness at the three of them standing so close, what with her track record and all that.

Emma understands her mother in that moment. What she doesn’t understand is the way she leans closer to her mother’s ear, if only to ask as innocently as possible, “What are Eala’s thoughts on polygamy?”

The Queen gasps, and laughs out loud.


	17. Chapter 17

The guests only leave the orphanage late in the afternoon and, even if there are people to clean up the mess, Emma still insists on staying and helping – it just makes sense. Graham takes to helping the children bring everything to the kitchen and, when Emma checks up on him, he’s doing the dishes with a towel thrown over his shoulder while the kids are wiping up. He flashes her a grin before going back to his task, and Emma grabs another garbage bag.

Her mother helps her throw away everything that needs to be thrown away, not even a little bit reluctant to get her hands dirty, and both women work in silence for a little while, too focused on the task at hand to indulge in small talk. That is, until Mary Margaret looks up for a moment, a breathless gasp falling from her lips.

“Oh, dear,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else.

Emma frowns before she looks up too, and understanding settles on her features as she lets out a simple ‘ah’. Her father was there today, of course – they’re yet to make the official announcement, it’s getting ridiculous – and he hasn’t left yet, of course. Only now he’s sitting in one of the chairs in the corner, Henry on his lap with his huge book of fairy tales open in front of them both. They’re too enthralled by their reading to notice they are being watched, and they make for a lovely sight – Emma could almost feel jealous, for she could have grown up like this, with her father telling her stories of knights and princesses and pirates.

She sighs, and turns her head to her mother nibbling on her bottom lip, still staring. Emma sighs again. “Do you know how frustrating that reversed divorced parents act is?” she asks without heat.

Her mother startles out of her thoughts, and offers Emma her best deer-in-the-headlights look. “What do you mean?”

Emma rolls her eyes, equally frustrated and amused. “You know how divorced parents sometimes use their kids to get back at each other?” The Queen frowns, but nods. “Well you’ve been doing that, only you’re not bitching to me about each other, you’re just…” Instead of finding the words, she puts a hand on her heart and pretends to faint with a sigh. “It’s ridiculous, really. Just talk to him.”

Mary Margaret frowns some more, before she replies, “We don’t…” and finishes her sentence with a hand on her heart too, her sigh coming with a roll of the eyes.

“You so do!” Emma laughs incredulously. “And it was cute at first, but now it’s just nonsense. Don’t force me to lock you in a closet or something.”

“We all know you do love closets,” her mother retorts.

Emma is left gasping at her, a grin settling on her opened mouth before she lets out an unladylike snort. She can’t actually believe her mother is making a joke over the same reason she yelled at her only weeks ago (weeks? it feels like a lifetime), and doesn’t know what to think of this development in their relationship. Of course it is great, that they can joke and tease, but it is all so sudden too, jumping into things with no warning, that Emma finds herself confused more often than not. As with most things in her life, it will get some getting used to.

“Yeah, well. It’s effective,” she replies lamely – lamely enough that it might even be a _smirk_ on her mother’s lips. Which. It’s a first, and at least she no longer looks like she is about to pass out at the mere idea of talking to the man she loves. So Emma pushes her a little further, with a bump of her shoulder against her mother’s.

It works, Mary Margaret taking a deep breath before she walks toward David and Henry. Both of them look up at the same time, smiling at her as she says something Emma can’t hear. It doesn’t stop the princess from grinning proudly, though.

“A modern day fairy godmother.”

She looks up to Killian now standing next to her, leaning above the table to grab an empty plate and throw it into the garbage bag at her feet. When he meets her eyes, it's with a simple smile that makes Emma want to scream at him for how difficult he's making things for her. She's supposed to hate him. She liked it better when she hated him.

“What do you mean?” she asks, because she apparently passed the no-turning-back point a long time ago. She just can't help herself at this point.

Killian nods to her parents and says, “Bringing back happy endings like it's nobody's business.”

“It's the right thing to do,” she replies, defensive.

The last thing she wants to to be psychoanalysed right now, especially since she perfectly knows what would come out of it. She's bringing her parents back together because she can't have a happy ending of her own, because she needs to compensate somehow, because she needs the perfect nuclear family she never thought was in the card for her. Really, it doesn't take a genius and she doesn't need such ideas to be voiced out loud. Not by Killian of all people.

But he doesn't say anything, instead hums in reply and grabs another paper plate to throw away. She eyes him warily, not used to his silence, even as she piles dirty glasses on top of each other. The tower she creates is a little too high for its own good, but it keeps her hands busy, if not her mind.

“Why are you still here?” she asks after a while.

She notices his smirk from the corner of her eye, but thinks nothing of it. Smirking is Killian's default setting when it comes to doing something with his lips and – oh no, her mind isn't touching that with a ten-foot pole.

“The kids asked me to play soccer with them again. Leaving now while everyone else is cleaning seemed like an asshole move.”

“You are an asshole,” she reminds him without heat.

He does laugh out loud, so Emma counts it as a win. At least he's growing self-aware. There is still hope for him.

“Never mincing your words, are you?”

Emma's lips curl up in a smirk of their own as she turns to face him a little more, and she shrugs innocently at him. “It keeps you on your toes.”

“Like a ballerina, really.”

It occurs to her that this, whatever this is, might be considered flirting in some circles, and she doesn't know what to think of it. She should stop, it is the right thing to do with her actual fiancé doing the dishes in the other room and her parents only a few feet away from them but – as always with Killian, all logic seems to fly out the window.

It also occurs to her that Killian and she have shifted closer throughout their conversation, and she now has to look up a little if she wants to look into his eyes. Their height difference never was something Emma put much thoughts into, but she is wearing flats instead of heels today and he seems taller all of a sudden. He also seems the perfect height to just snuggle against him, nose pressed to his collarbone, but it is a thought Emma refuses to have.

(Too late…)

Killian seems to come to the same conclusion – about their closeness, not about how perfect his body would fit against her – for his breath catches in his throat a little and he looks down to her lips. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom one, and it takes all of Emma’s willpower not to nibble on it, not to drag him into an empty room and – no.

“Emma, I –”

“Thanks for your help,” she says before he can finish, and takes a step back.

Her hip bumps against the table, the tower of glasses wobbling just enough to catch both their attention. She doesn’t sigh in relief, but it’s a close thing, and she curses herself as she closes her eyes. It’s too much, he’s too much, and of course it would be too much too to ask of him that he drops it, that he takes the hint and leaves her alone.

(Does she even want him to leave her alone?)

(She doesn’t know right from wrong with him.)

He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t even look back at her, and instead settles on piling some plates. “Are you really going through with this?” he asks when she least expect it.

Emma can only stare at his profile, the way he forces himself to focus on the task at hand instead of staring back. She knows what he means, of course – what everybody means, lately – but the question takes her by surprise. Killian takes her by surprise, and she struggles for an answer, for the answer she’s been giving everyone else.

_It’s my duty._

_I’m doing this for my country._

She can lie to herself, she can lie to her parents – it should be so easy to lie to him too, to pretend she is happy, she is okay with marrying Graham. But lying to Killian is an impossible task. He seems to know too much, seems to read her like an open book, too perceptive for her to simple serve him the same lies she’s been giving everyone else.

“You didn’t leave me another choice,” she replies instead, bitter.

Killian gets the underlying _it’s all your fault_ loud and clear, if the way he winces is anything to go by. He swallows the lump in his throat as, slowly, finally, he looks back to her. His eyes are cloudy with something Emma refuses to identify – disappointment, sadness, anger, a little bit of everything.

“You could be happier with someone else,” he says weakly.

“Let me guess, with you?” Her chuckle is even more bitter than her words as she adds, “This ship sailed a long time ago, no thanks to you.”

She refuses to let her mind run wild with this _what if_. What if he’d been nothing but the handsome stranger she’d bumped into at the ball, the mysterious lord sharing a dance with her? What if they had started flirting like normal people, instead of him threatening to take her crown? Where would they be now? Would it be him instead of Graham?

She won’t let herself entertain such fantasies for too long – the pain isn’t worth it, and there is no point in imagining an alternate universe where things suck a little less. This is her life now, one she has picked, one where she makes all the decisions no matter the cost. This is her life, and she has to deal with it.

“Emma…” he starts again.

She grabs the plates, refuses to look at him. “I’m going to help Graham with the dishes.”

(And how many times now has she chosen Graham over him?)

 

…

 

Suddenly the wedding is just around the corner, and Emma would be freaking out if she was given the luxury. But her days are filled from dawn till dusk with meetings, appointments and other matters of the highest importance, and it barely leaves her time to breathe, let alone think. Picking flowers for the church is a nightmare she never wants to go through again (“Roses, just roses seriously, I don’t care”) and let’s not even talk about table decoration or whom to choose as the flower girl (thankfully, Graham has a little cousin the right age). The only silver lining is cake tasting, if only because all her friends invite themselves to it and it feels more like some decadent, Marie-Antoinette-esque tea time than like preparations for her wedding. Emma can’t wait until she can put everything – _everything_ – behind her and go back to her normal life. At least as normal as her life can get, which… Yeah.

But the worst comes with dress fitting, because of course it does. She didn’t really get to pick the dress herself, mostly because it’s coming from the only stylist in Eala that is big enough to make it to several fashion weeks a year – national pride, and all that – but she gets to pick between five different models. Five different dresses she has to try on while her friends watch, and it feels more like being at the zoo than getting ready for the (so called) happiest day of her life.

Ruby does manage to lighten the mood by stealing Emma’s phone so she can post a cryptic picture of white tulle on Instagram. She then spends the next ten minutes reading out loud the comments as they come, which means she spells out emojis more than anything else (“Heart eyes, heart eyes, flamenco girl, heart eyes. Must have been a mistake, or they want you to wear read instead.” “Six, no seven Munch’s Screams. Chill.”).

It makes Emma laugh, and Ruby’s smug grin shows how proud she is that she managed to ease her best friend’s nerves. Of course, Emma still winces a little when she has to slip into a dress and then stand in front of the mirror for long seconds, but it gets a little better.

She’s pondering on the third dress – heavily inspired by Ancient Greek fashion, without all the layers to make her look like she’s the wedding cake – when the door opens loudly. Everyone turns around to stare at the newcomer, and Killian stares back, eyes widening as he takes Emma in, looks around, then stares back at Emma like he can’t help himself. His mouth opens but no word comes out and, even from afar, Emma sees the blush spreading on his face, from the tip of his ears to his cheeks, crawling down his neck.

She finds herself blushing, too.

“I – hmm – I was looking for Belle but – obviously.”

Nobody is taking pity on his for that one, which would be hilarious any other given day, but he’s still staring at her and Emma doesn’t find the moment entertaining at all. Not when he’s drinking her in like a man who just crossed the desert, not when the heaviness of his gaze makes her think _yes, this is it, this is the dress_. Emma has never been one to seek approval from men, but she can’t ignore the thrill running up her spine when Killian doesn’t look away – _can’t_ look away, most likely.

“She’s with the Queen,” Ruby replies after long seconds, but Killian doesn’t acknowledge her.

He probably didn’t hear, didn’t listen at all, too busy in his adoration of Emma to even remember the world around them still exist. Emma forgets a little about it too, if she’s honest. It is hard to remember anything at all, when she can see the – she swallows down with difficulty – the _love_ in his eyes, the open awe, the shameless wonder.

It’s the stuff of fairy tales, the happily ever after so close she could just reach out and grab it, hold it close to her chest, never let it go. It would be so easy, just giving up on everything, just giving in to her feelings.

She breathes in, deeply enough that the dress constricts her chest – the perfect wake-up call for her to remember where she is, what she is doing. She looks down at the dress, remembers why she is doing all that – remembers her country, her duty, her crown. Even now, even with Killian looking at her like she’s the sun, the moon, and all the galaxies, it is hard to forget everything else – hard to forget who she is, what her priorities are.

Killian must understand for, when she looks back to him, he nods simply. A single nod that breaks her heart, and perhaps his too. “I will go check the Queen’s office then.” He takes a step back, before he adds, “You look breathtaking, Your Highness.”

Ariel echoes his “Breathtaking” in a stunned whisper even as the door closes behind Killian again and silence settles in the room. Nobody says anything for long minutes, probably not knowing what to say – Emma is at a loss for words too, the world spinning dangerously around her. Or perhaps it is her head, who even knows anymore. Obviously not Emma.

“We should rename Lord Doucheface,” Mulan says all of a sudden. “Lord Heart Eyes seems more appropriate.”

“Oh god,” Emma breathes out, shame turning her cheeks a crimson red.

Her friends pay little attention to her, though, already too busy coming up with different nicknames, all as ridiculous as the next one. Ariel snorts through her nose loudly enough that it makes everyone else laugh too, and only Ruby looks at Emma, a small frown on her brows. She mouths ‘are you okay?’ without making any sound, so the others won’t notice the silent exchange, and Emma shrugs a little.

She isn’t. She feels like shit.

But, still, she mouths back a simple ‘yeah,’ even if it doesn’t convince Ruby. The brunette offers her a small pout then, sad and pitying. Not that there is anything they can do about it at this point, but it feels good (if only a little) to know she still has her best friend’s moral support no matter what.

The stylist startles Emma as he comes back next to her, asking, “Are you ready for the last one, Your Highness?”

She looks at herself in the mirror, looks at the skirt pooling softly around her legs, at the belt around her waist enhancing her frame, at the way the collar shows just the right amount of cleavage. She looks at herself in the mirror, and can only see blue eyes staring back at her, smiling back at her, adoring her. She closes her eyes, and sighs.

“No need. I’ll take this one.”

The stylist nods, happy, and goes to grab some pin for the fitting. Emma looks back to Ruby through the mirror – they don’t need words, Ruby simply understands, and smiles again.


	18. Chapter 18

Emma is pretty sure no one could everlook as (successfully) threatening as Granny that one time she and Ruby came back home past curfew when they were fourteen. Mostly because Granny is an entire different level of threatening, and Emma once saw her waving a fryingpan at one of her cooks because he wasn’t doing his job as well as he could. So, really, Emma gives her mother an A+ for trying, but the hands on hips and stern pout attitude isn’t exactly working on her anymore at this point. Even Ruby rolls her eyes and has a smirk on her lips, that’s how ineffective the queen’s act is right now.

“May I remind you those relationships you are building tonight are important, and you’ll need to maintain them through the years?”

“Yeah,” Ruby guffaws. “That’s what the tequila is for. _Diplomacy_.”

Emma can barely swallow down a smirk of her own at that point, but her mother has given up on trying to lecture them anyway. Seriously, Ruby has been waiting all her life for her best friend’s bachelorette party, and Emma is pretty sure not even diplomatic incidents or the queen’s wrath could stop her from throwing the party of the century tonight – even if it doesn’t involve strippers, much to Ruby’s disappointment and Emma’s relief.

“Don’t worry, mom. Belle will hold the fort.”

They’re planning to get Belle drunk off her ass tonight, but her mother doesn’t have to know that. Not when she agreed to give the castle to her daughter for the whole night so she can have fun, which is just the perfect excuse Mary Margaret needed anyway to spend the evening with David. They think they’re being subtle. They clearly and definitely aren’t.

Not that Emma can really blame them, because apparently subtlety runs in the family. She wasn't as discreet as she thought she was when she asked the cooks to smuggle bottles of vodka inside the castle last night, if the way her mother glares at the drinks table is anything to go by, but it's not like they can drink soda all night. It's a bachelorette party. Of course there will be booze, and loud screams, and a lot of embarrassing moments Emma will never want to revisit ever again (which is why there is booze, to forget). So her mother lets it slide, with a roll of the eyes and a comment about having fun tonight, but behaving too. She dwells some more on the idea of diplomacy, just because she's the queen and she doesn't know how not to think as a queen. Emma is used to it.

Still, there is some sense of victory when the door closes behind her, a little after midday. The kind of victory where Ruby actually does a victory dance, arms high in the air and hips swaying from one side to the other. She's even singing, and Emma laughs out loud.

Her friends arrive soon after – Ariel so excited she looks like she’s been pre-drinking all morning long, Mulan with a smile on her lips as she wraps an arm around Ruby's waist, Aurora a little calmer (for now). They have fun getting everything ready with the cooks, blasting pop songs and singing along as they pour chips and popcorns into the largest bowls Emma has every seen in her life. It's far from the delicate food that is usually served at the castle, but Emma refuses to have that kind of stuffy party tonight. She chose her guests to have fun, after all, so fun she will have.

She more than deserves it, after all.

It's a little after six when the first guests finally arrive at the palace, freshly picked from the airport by royal limousines. Tiana, princess of Maldonia, steps out of the car, officially announced by the guard and officially hugged by Emma. They are not particularly close, if only because Tiana's kingdom is halfway across the globe, but they are friendly enough that she accepted Emma's invitation without the shadow of a doubt.

She says so with a grin, before she adds, "I even baked cookies for you."

"Oh, how I love you," Emma replies. Tiana's cooking skills are well-known among royals for being heavenly, so Emma counts this as a prized wedding gift – and something that will disappear from the snacks table in about five seconds. Maybe she should ask the guard to save it for later, just to be a little selfish.

After Tiana come other guests, some living here in Eala (Emma can not get away with snobbing half the court, after all) and others coming from abroad both for the party and for the wedding happening in two days. The castle will be full of guests come tomorrow, and Emma is a little wary of what will happen then. She is too used to the palace being quiet and almost always empty, if you don't count the people working here and her own family.

Jasmine is next to arrive, soon followed by Giselle (who comes with Pip, her little pup, under the arm), Megara, and Ladies Susan and Lucy ** _._** Emma and Susan are discussing their last year of university – Susan still has one to go before graduation, and maybe even a doctorate after that – when the royal guard cleans his voice once more.

"Her Royal Highness Elsa of Norway and Her Highness Anna of Norway."

The squeak escaping Emma is ridiculous at best, Susan raising an astonished eyebrow at the sound. Still, Emma doesn't find it in herself to care, already running back toward the main doors to leap into the queen of Norway's arms. A stunned giggle tumbles out of Elsa's mouth, as well as all the air in her lungs, as she wraps her arms around Emma happily.

They see each other rarely, if only because Elsa has a country to rule and Emma doesn't have time to travel around Europe as much as she'd like, but their bond runs deep – from the day they met when they were seventeen, Elsa still a princess and far more shy than she is today. Their friendship was immediate and, even if Emma tries her best to keep in touch with all the people she invited tonight, Elsa is the one she effortlessly manages to contact at least once a month.

Ruby was jealous at first, afraid Emma would favour Elsa over her – it was easy to think so, after all – but even the brunette warmed up to Elsa eventually. Probably because there isn't a soul on the planet who could truly hate the queen of Norway, with her quiet demeanour and her gentle smiles.

"I'm so happy to see you!" Emma almost yells, forgetting herself for a moment.

"So am I!" Elsa replies, voice equally excited.

"Wow, Anna, so happy to see you too, Anna," the younger sister says, voice not as sarcastic as she would like it to be. "How was the journey? Oh, just fine."

"I'm happy to see you too, don't be a brat."

"I'm not a brat – I mean – I _am_ – I mean –"

Emma laughs some more before she pulls Anna into a hug too. The girl is still young, only eighteen, and it shows – she still doesn't know how to behave in society, and she drives her professor up the wall over matter of etiquette and propriety. Not that Emma can blame her for it, really, she knows all too well how awful such lessons can be, and can only imagine Anna, as the second child, doesn't care very much about such things.

"I know. Come inside, we need to catch up."

Ursula, much to Ariel's annoyance, is the last of the guests to arrive. Belle nods to Emma, and to the guards for them to close the doors, and then it's only twenty or so aristocratic young women in the great hall, with designer clothes, pop songs, and more candy than should probably be allowed. Emma already loves every second of it, and even chuckles when Ruby delicately (as delicately as Ruby can do anything) taps a knife to the side of her glass to get everyone's attention.

Emma clears her voice, then. "Thank you all for accepting my invitation and coming tonight," she starts, before a sincerer and less nervous smile blossoms on her lips. "As you know, I am getting married in two days. As you also know, this palace is far away from journalists, cameras, and gossipers. So please, I'm begging you, let's party like we're never allowed to!"

Her speech, if it can be described as such, is met with cheers and applause from her guests, and Ruby immediately turns the music up a little more. She grabs Mulan's hand, as well as Ariel's, who grabs Aurora's, and soon the four of them are dancing in the middle of the room and setting the tone for the party. Others join them, while Emma slides closer to the drinks table and pours herself a glass of punch -- she wants to start easy, because there are levels of embarrassment she refuses to reach even tonight, but the punch is spiked and she might get drunk faster than she would like.

Still, as far as bachelorette parties go, this one is far from decadent. Probably because the crowd is mostly made of proper princesses and ladies, the kind who have been taught to behave since they were old enough to walk in a straight **_line_** and talk in a soft, even voice. Loosening up might not be the easiest thing for them, but Emma wouldn't want tonight to turn into the kind of frat house parties she attended during her first year of college. This is fun without being too much, and she likes it that way.

Ruby still manages to start a game of beer pong at some point, though, because "it's not a real party without beer pong and never have I ever, Emma, it just _isn't_ ". They lose Anna after the first round, because her aim is just as bad as her tolerance for alcohol, and even Elsa laughs to tears at the way the princess stubbornly refuses to admit defeat. Belle still forces her to drink a large glass of cold water and to eat a slice of chocolate cake, to soak up the alcohol, because Belle is still mostly there to take care of them tonight. Even if she's been drinking too, just like Ruby had predicted.

But Belle also brings them a game of Twister at some point, which ends as badly as one could think it would. Emma is shaking with laughter as she takes a picture of the pile of princess limbs, Lucy's close fist up in the air after she won a round of the game. It's the kind of picture she would put on Instagram, if she weren’t famous and those women's reputation weren't on the line, so instead she preciously saves it on her phone. Then comes the picture of Tiana with her mouth full of cake, one of Jasmine teaching others how to do the belly dance, and a video of Ursula and Giselle doing a particularly epic duet together. There are also tons of blurry pictures, and pictures that are half-red because someone put their thumb on the lens, and one of Ruby half asleep with her head on Mulan's lap while both of them sit on the marble floor.

The party comes to its natural end at midnight which, again, would be a bummer if it were with a different crowd. But they started early too, and there are more empty bottles on the tables than should probably be allowed, and Emma is out of breath from the dancing, laughing, and overall having fun. So she lets Belle help her take care of their guests, showing them their room for the night and telling them to meet in the dining room next morning for breakfast.

Still, her group of friends follow her to her bedroom, bottles not so hidden under their clothes, and soon Emma finds herself sitting in a circle with Ruby, Elsa, Mulan, Ariel and Aurora, too excited to go to bed just yet. Anna settles in a loveseat next to the window so she can busy herself with her phone. ("Boyfriend," Elsa mouths as she wriggles her eyebrows, and Emma makes a mental note to ask further details later. Much, _much_ later.)

"Never have I ever," Ruby grins as she uncaps the bottle of vodka, "been engaged."

"Oh yes, the 'let's get Emma drunk' game, awesome."

But Emma still grabs the bottle from Ruby, and takes a sip, before she gives the bottle to Ariel. The vodka burns down her throat, way more than the punch she's been drinking all night, and Emma knows she won't last long. She isn't nearly close enough to sober to last more than four or five sips, really.

She ponders on her own statement, pout on her lips, before she says, "Never have I ever grown up in Europe."

All girls groan in unison while Ruby high-fives her, then Ariel states that she's never been in love with more than one person, and some of the girls groan some more. Emma included. She does laugh at the way Elsa proudly announces that she has never been into men – a low blow if there were any – and even more so when Aurora, her cheeks turned an impressive shade of crimson, says that she has never done the do.

They go around once more, the girls more obvious about wanting Emma to get drunk, before Anna startles them all with a little yelp of surprise. They stop the game, Ruby holding the bottle to her lips, to stare at the young princess in confusion. Anna stares back, her eyes wide.

"Someone just threw rocks at your window," she says.

It's just the kind of sentence all the girls need to forget their game altogether, jumping to their feet so they can all rush to the window and see what is going on. Still, Mulan is the one to comment, "Oh no he did _not_ ," and only then does Emma come to the same conclusion. And to the same statement.

Oh no.

 _He did not_.

She's the one to reach the window first, opening the curtains before she opens the window itself, looking down to the stranger throwing rocks like a character straight out of a bad romance novel. And oh yes, he _did_ , Killian staring up at her with an easy smirk on his lips. Smirk that disappears as soon as the other girls gather at the window, Anna standing up on the loveseat so she can see better – even from the second floor, Emma clearly notices the look of surprise on Killian's features, who obviously didn't expect to have such an audience for... whatever that is he's planning to do right now.

Killian doesn't let that deter him, though, taking a few steps back so he doesn't crack his neck so much from looking up at her – because of course he's still looking at her, instead of her friends – as he spreads out his arms.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," he exclaims.

Emma's eyes widen, and she stands straighter, taking a few steps away from the window. Her shoulders bump into her friends, all of them now staring at her – there is confusion in Elsa's eyes, curiosity in Anna's, and plain old delight in everyone else's. That, she could do without, because it isn't hard to guess what her friends are going to say before they actually say it.

But it is Elsa who speaks up first, looking back to the window with a frown. "Is that your fiancé?"

Ruby cackles – actually cackles, loud and ugly. Emma glares at her, because it's easier than answering Elsa's question, since it would only raise more questionsand she isn't in the mood to explain the clusterfuck that is now her life. But Ruby, as the perfect best friend she is (not), replies for her with a simple, "No, that's the guy she loves."

Elsa frowns some more for a second, before it dawns on her and she simply says a little ' _ooh_ '. Anna immediately tugs on her sleeve, asking her to explain, but Emma tunes out their conversation. She doesn't need this right now, or ever.

"You should go." She turns to face Ruby once more. Her best friend has sobered up all of a sudden, looking as serious as she can get, so Emma frowns at her as she is the confused one this time. "Seriously, Ems. Would you rather spend the night here with us, or enjoy your last hours of freedom with him?"

She opens her mouth but no sound comes out. It is tempting, of course, even more so with how buzzed she feels right now – she wants to meet Killian, wants to spend some time with him under the moonlight. Perhaps it is the perfect opportunity for her to enjoy his company one last time, before she gets married and has to get over him. Perhaps she needs to scratch that itch once and for all, if she wants to move on from, well, whatever the hell this thing between them is.

"Okay. Yeah, okay."

Ruby beams at her, and Emma smiles back nervously before she grabs the first sweater she finds and slips her feet in her sneakers. It's not really midnight-stroll-through-the-woods appropriate, but it's summer in the south of Europe, so it's not like she is afraid of being cold either. She takes a deep breath, before she walks back to the window and leans forward – Killian is still there, of course, grinning up at her.

(It will be one hard itch to scratch.)

"Don't move," she tells him.

"I'm not going anywhere.”

Oh, and how she would like to hear those words in an entirely different setting.


	19. Chapter 19

Despite the usual security inside the castle, as well as the additional guards posted in every hallway for Elsa’s security, Emma makes her way out of her bedroom and to the gardens easily. A little too easily perhaps and, were it a different day, she would question it. But not tonight, though, tonight she welcomes the flaws in the system as she steps on the grass.

If the cold air outside hadn’t managed to sober Emma up, the intensity of Killian’s gaze would have done the trick. Emma has never considered herself a blushing woman, but she still averts her eyes for a moment, biting down the smile that threatens to blossom on her lips. This is silly, of course, but the alcohol is still buzzing through her veins a little, and the stars are shining, and it’s all so romantic she wants to slap herself.

“Milady,” Killian says as he takes her hand. He bows a little, but doesn’t kiss the back on her hand – instead, his smirk widens as he adds, “Was that the queen of Norway at your window?”

“Do you want to talk politics now?”

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’.

Emma looks above her shoulder, up to the window of her bedroom. Unsurprisingly, all her friends are still pressed against the glass panel, watching and smirking. She shoos them away with a flick of her wrist, to no avail of course, as she follows Killian further down the gardens. She has no idea where he is leading her, what he has in mind, so a small giggle escapes her lips when, behind a small bandstand, she finds a horse awaiting them.

“Really?” she asks, unable to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

Killian means no harm, but the irony isn’t lost on her even as he rolls his eyes and helps her up on the horse. He follows closely, sitting in front of her and letting her wrap her arms around his waist not to fall – smooth, really. All carefully planned and executed, simply to charm her.

Emma indeed is thoroughly charmed.

“Hold on tight, Your Highness,” Killian tells her as he spurs the horse.

Their mount jumps forward, taking off in a soft gallop, and Emma does tighten her hold around Killian’s waist – out of necessity, at first, then because it allows her to shift closer to him, from hips to shoulders as she presses her nose to his neck. Killian holds the reins with one hand, his other hand resting above her until their fingers entwine of their own accord.

It makes for a peaceful journey through the castle’s gardens – they are way bigger than Emma had thought at first and, when she looks above her shoulder, the castle seems small in the distance. The gardens soon turn into a small forest, and the forest into a meadow. Emma gasps at the sight, for there are flowers everywhere on the ground, pink and beautiful in the moonlight – something straight out of a fairytale, almost magical in how peculiar it is.

Killian jumps off the horse before helping her down, hands on her hips as she slides down too. Her eyes meet his only briefly before she focuses back on the meadow around her. She crouches down, fingers tentatively brushing against one of the flowers. It’s soft and cold to the touch, silken and delicate.

“It’s beautiful,” she comments out loud.

Having fastened the horse’s reins to a nearby tree, Killian comes back to her with a smile, the kind that leaves dimples in his cheeks and sparkles in his eyes. Emma may be mistaken, for there is so little light, but she swears his cheeks and ears turn a darker shade of pink at her words. “I’m glad you like it,” he replies.

He holds one of the flowers in his hand, and raises his arm so he can put it in her hair, at the base of her messy bun. Emma’s lips curl into a smile, one that goes with the reddening of her cheeks. Of course, he doesn’t stop there, and leads her to a blanket draped over the ground, a picnic basket lying there too. A thermos of hot chocolate as well as bear claws and half-melting rocky road ice cream welcome Emma, and she wonders which cook Killian bribed to get such an accurate selection of her favourite comfort food.

“That’s –” she starts, but comes up empty, the words refusing to come.

She’s left speechless in front of such displays of affection, simple yet effective. Not that Killian seems to mind, taking her hand to lead her to the blanket and sitting next to her. She drinks the hot chocolate in silence for a few moments, unsure of what to say, but then he asks how the evening went and it is easy to settle into a conversation. She shares a few anecdotes about her night with the other princesses and it lightens the mood immediately, her nervousness slipping away without her even noticing.

It’s her first time talking to Killian – actually talking to him, instead of their usual jabs and half-assed attempts at flirting – and she realises she doesn’t really know him, just like he doesn’t really know her. So they trade stories of their childhoods, school and friends and how he got the scar on his cheek for a poor attempt at shaving when he was eight. She tells him of Ruby and how pissed Granny was the day they tried on all the perfume bottles only to end coughing for half an hour.

He just graduated from college, just like her – geography major – and she shares his love of literature and old sci-fi movies. They talk of their travels – mostly Europe for him, some stays overseas for diplomatic visits with her mother for her – and of the places they’d like to see. He tells her he never knew his father, beside the fact that he was a drunk who promised his mother the whole world before abandoning her, and that his mother died when he was a child, leaving him to his aunt Zelena. She doesn’t tell him the feeling of being unloved and unwanted still weighs on her shoulders sometimes. She doesn’t need to.

“Why have you never dated anyone?”

The question, though not unwelcome, takes Emma by surprise, and she stills with a chunk of bear claw halfway to her mouth, staring at Killian for long seconds. She puts the pastry back down on her napkin, and brushes the crumbles away from her fingers.

“How do you know that?”

Killian gives her his best unimpressed look, raising an eyebrow. “You’re an American girl who found out she was a lost princess at sixteen, and all your social network accounts are public. Every journalist in this country analysed your every move for years.”

It’s a concept she was familiar with, of course – her mother has an entire PR team dedicated entirely to her and checking her Twitter and Instagram accounts on a daily basis. But it’s an entire different thing to hear that her people actually care that much about her dating life. (Then again, she remembers how heartbroken Ruby was when William and Kate got engaged and…) It’s an entire different thing to hear that _Killian_ actually cares.

She wets her lips, before she replies, “There was someone, once. When my mother showed up, I was dating a guy and – I was supposed to keep it a secret, you know? We didn’t want journalists to find out before the official announcement but… We were _dating_. I thought I could tell him and–” The words get stuck at the back of her throat, and she coughs slightly as a self-deprecating smile curl up her lips. “He dumped me. Said he would have never come near me if he’d known who I was.”

Killian doesn’t reply anything at first, but his hand is on top of her on the blanket, thumb drawing small circles into the skin of her wrist. It is soothing in its simplicity – a quiet way of telling her he is here, listening, not going anywhere.

It’s been years since the last time she thought about Neal, but Emma surprises herself in how painful the memories still are. Sure, she has some one-night stands in college, even if she always managed to keep it on the down low. But she knows, deep down, that Neal leaving her that way, without even an explanation, scarred her and shaped the way she looks at relationships even today. She knows, deep down, it influenced the choices that led to where she is now, ready to marry a man she doesn’t love while another, who does love her, is standing right in front of her.

“He was a fool,” Killian replies at last. “Any man letting you go is a fool in my book.”

She snorts, and asks, “Is that why you just won’t give up?”

But the words are too loaded, the question too complex. She doesn’t want, nor need, to hear his answer for it would only make things even more complicated than they already are – if only such a thing is possible. Instead, she averts her eyes and wets her lips once more, willing to find a way to change the subject to an easiest one.

“I told my aunt I _am_ giving up,” is his reply, startling her. “The throne is yours.”

Her eyes wide – that is a change of subject she didn’t expect, didn’t see coming. She is speechless for a moment, as Killian’s words settle in, as she understands the magnitude of such a small sentence. It doesn’t change anything, in the grand scheme of things – she still has to get married to be crowned queen because an ancient sexist law says so – but she does appreciate the sentiment. She does appreciate him backing off, at last, even if the timing sucks.

“I still have to get married to be crowned.”

“You still have to get married to be crowned,” he echoes.

It’s sad and final in his mouth, like he finally is accepting her fate – their fates, and the fact they will not be entwined. The ‘what if’ is back at the front of her mind, yet Emma refuses to linger on it once again. It is too painful, as is everything else about their situation. She would rather focus on the here and now, would rather appreciate her last hours of freedom before she has to walk to the altar. Less headache-inducing (and heartbreaking) that way.

“Tell me a secret,” she asks after long minutes of silence, turning her hand when it lays beneath his so she can squeeze his fingers.

“You’re a good dancer.”

Emma can’t help but laugh. “That’s not a secret, that’s an opinion.”

“The secret is that I’ve been wanting to dance with you ever since.”

Killian’s cheeks turn an adorable shade of crimson, sincerity and vulnerability pouring out of his every word. Emma can only nibble on her lip in reply, fighting against a blush of her own as well as a grin. The smile blossoms on her lips anyway as she stands up and stretches out a hand for him to take – he does, and she propels him up before her arms wrap around his neck while his hands settle on her hips. Their embrace is more intimate than their first dance, nobody to stare or judge them for it, so Emma moves even closer, leaning her forehead against his collarbone in a sigh.

They move slowly to the rhythm of Killian’s humming – a song she doesn’t recognize, soft to her ear. It’s everything their first dance wasn’t – slow and intimate, just the two of them without the expensive outfits, the expensive food, the expensive band hired for the night. But it’s better too, as his hand settle on the small of her back, anchoring her to him like he never wants to let go. He will have to, eventually, but Emma refuses to think about that for now. She only focuses on how well her body fits against his, on the warmth of his skin and his hot breaths in her ear.

The song Killian is humming gradually turns into something else, a little more familiar even if Emma can’t exactly place it. It’s something she has already heard, surely, but the metaphorical light bulb over her head doesn’t flicker to life until Killian starts whispering the well-known ‘sha-la-la-la-la’. She snorts through her nose, loudly, before she hides a chuckle against the skin of his neck.

“Subtlety, thy name is Killian Jones,” she murmurs.

She doesn’t need to look up to know he’s grinning too by now, she hears the smile in his voice alright as he goes on with the lyrics. That’s the dorkiest he has even been with her, offering a new side to his personality she would have never guessed he had. It suits him, of course – it makes him more human, somehow, to picture a tiny version of him watching Disney movies in front of a big television screen.

She leans backward to meet his eyes, and he is indeed smiling, soft and gentle and loving. It’s too much, it will always be too much, so she closes her eyes instead, moving closer to him until their noses brush, until their breaths mingle.

It’s nothing like their first kiss, it’s nothing like the angry displays of dominance that went on that day – fighting instead of kissing, proving a point as all the tension was finally bursting out of her. Not this time, and like everything else since they arrived to the meadow, this time it is soft and slow. This time she takes her time exploring and discovering his mouth, nibbling down on his bottom lip, brushing her tongue again his. It elicits the most delicious groan from Killian, and he is the one who loses patience first, he is the one who deepens the kiss and turns it into something more.

It leaves her panting and breathless, unable to tell right from wrong when she lets go of his mouth to gulp in some much needed air. For a moment only, as she dives back into a second kiss, the strength of it making them both sway on the spot. His hand settles on her jaw, angling her head just so, and Emma forgets to think altogether.

…

Emma wakes up in a shiver, and it takes long seconds for her to find her bearings.

The morning dew makes the grass cold underneather her, the soft wind not helping in the least. Still, she is warmer than she would expect from (apparently) sleeping under the stars, and it has everything to do with the blanket above her and –

And the fact she lies half on top of Killian’s body.

His shoulder makes for a good pillow, their legs entangled and his arm firmly holding her close to him. His breaths create little clouds of white smoke in the cold morning air, and Emma takes the time to study him – the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the little scar there. She will never get to ask how he got it, for her staring feels more like a silent goodbye than loving adoration. Once she stands up and goes back to the castle, it will be over, once and for all. She isn’t ready for that.

So Emma snuggles back against Killian’s chest and beneath the blanket, smiling when his fingers squeeze her hip as if to prevent her from moving again. Possessive even in sleep, possessive when he has no right to be. She closes her eyes in a sigh, only to open them again with a startle when she hears a branch snapping.

It might just be the horse moving around, but Emma raises her head anyway and looks around her. It might just be a trick of the lights, but she swears she sees a shadow moving between the trees. She reaches for Killian’s shoulder and shakes. It takes him a few seconds to wake up too, frowning at her, as he grabs her wrist and pulls, no doubt so she will go back to snuggling.

“Killian,” she hisses instead. “I saw someone.”

His frown deepens, more out of confusion than anything else, as he leans on his elbows into a half-sitting position. “We’re still on the castle grounds, nobody’s allowed to enter.”

Which, in any other situation, would be enough for Emma to calm down. But she learnt a long time ago that her life isn’t any situation, and saw for herself only a few hours ago how flawed their security actually is – the probabilities of someone wandering the castle grounds are thus higher than what Killian make them out to be.

She swears it’s a human silhouette the second time she sees it between the trees, but she doesn’t think much of it at first. It maybe someone lost, unaware they are wandering too close to the castle. It may be a member of the security, which would be annoying but she could work her way around explaining what she is doing here so early in the morning. It could be –

“He has a camera.”

– a paparazzi.

The white of the camera lens is a sharp contrast with the darkness of the forest. She doesn’t hear the snapping of pictures being taken, but she doesn’t need to, for she stands up and startles Killian awake once more. And it’s probably out of habit that she jumps to the kind of conclusions she jumps to, probably because _she should have seen it comin_ g along with a good dose of _why was she so naïve_.

“The throne is mine, huh?” she asks with a glare and anger in her voice. “That’s why you’re inviting fucking paps to the party?”

She can’t believe she fell for that, can’t believe she let her guard down long enough for him to come and stab her in the back when she least expects it – can’t believe herself for that obvious display of weakness. She thought she had learnt her lesson with Neal, never to trust men, never to trust anyone, but she went and actually opened up to someone only to –

She stomps her way to the horse, refuses to look behind her back – at Killian, at the paparazzi still hiding there somewhere. She refuses to give the guy a run for his money. But of course Killian calls after her, and runs after her, and of course she shrugs him off when he goes to grab her wrist and stop her. She glares at him again.

“Too bad he didn’t catch us in the heat of the moment, huh?”

Killian’s eyes widen as he looks above his shoulder, then to her again. “Emma, I _swear_ I didn’t…”

“Save your breath for someone who cares.”

“Emma, listen…”

“This is so low,” she goes on, tugging on the horse’s reins to free him from the tree. “Even for you. I can’t fucking believe I _trusted_ you.”

He calls her name once more as she climbs on the horse, but Emma ignores him – as well as the desperation in his voice – as she spurs the horse. Her mount jumps into a fast gallop, knocking the air out of her lungs and making it difficult for her to breathe. It’s not a bad thing, really, because her breathing was ragged to begin with and she doesn’t want to think of what would happen if she lets herself take a large gulp of air. Instead, she focuses on going back to the castle.

It doesn’t look as far in the morning light as it did in the dead of the night, and she finds herself stopping in front of the kitchen doors a mere five minutes after she left. Most members of staff are still asleep, or barely starting on their day of work, but a guard still welcomes her outside and grabs the reins of her horse without a word. Emma reads the bewilderment on his face, but doesn’t offer him an explanation as she runs inside.

The heat of the kitchens takes her by surprise, and Emma’s body sags with the sigh that escapes her lips. She barely notices the cooks either, walking across the kitchens and toward the entrance hall. She knows her mother will not be home yet, but isn’t quite sure if it is a blessing or a curse – if she can play pretend and act like everything is normal, like her heart didn’t just shatter into a hundred pieces.

That thought alone has her choking on a sob that refuses to come out, her eyes prickling with tears she doesn’t want to shed. He doesn’t deserve her tears, her thoughts, her time. He doesn’t deserve anything at all, she thinks as she opens a door, only to collide with body.

Her gasp of surprise turns into one of relief when the hands that grab her arms are familiar, when the woman in front of her smiles kindly. Emma gasps and whispers a simple, “Granny,” and her voice falters on that one word, breaking into a high-pitched noise on the second syllable.

“Oh my darling,” Granny replies, pulling her into a hug.

She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t say anything else – just hugs Emma so tightly she could mend her pieces back together, if Emma didn’t feel broken beyond repair. She bites down on her lip but the tears still come, hot and salty when they roll down her cheeks and die at the corners of her mouth. She refuses to cry for him, but finds herself sobbing into Granny’s neck anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry with the delay for this one. Some nasty anon reviewer on ffnet pretty much managed to kill my muse for that fic (thanks a lot) (be nice to writers, folks, even if you don't like their work) and then I had a shitload of uni/intership work keeping me away from writing.
> 
> Anyway here it is now! I hope you enjoy it!

Emma wishes she was crying. She wishes she was angry, yelling and breaking things. It would make things easier, letting it all out and actually having a normal reaction to what happened. But she can only sit on the couch in her bedroom, tears dry on her cheeks, with Ava in her arms, licking her chin and whimpering a little because she feels something isn’t right. Ruby is playing with her hair, too, just as unable to comfort Emma as the dog is. Granny is pacing, back and forth in front of the couch, the only one actually doing something.

Everyone else was asked to go to their own rooms for the time being, besides Elsa now standing in a corner and not knowing what to do. It seems to be a trend, right now. Not that Emma thinks about it all that much, too busy not thinking about anything at all. It’s like her brain stopped working the moment she made it back to the castle, the moment Granny pulled her into a comforting hug. Emma can barely understand what happened, let alone react to it.

_He betrayed you, he betrayed you, he betrayed you._

An endless mantra, a broken record.

She took a leap of faith, trusting him, and now she’s paying the consequences of such a reckless act. She shouldn’t have done it, should have stuck to staying at the castle last night enjoying her friends and her party. Then she wouldn’t be sitting there with no idea how to react as she holds the broken pieces of her heart in her hands.

She didn’t even love him – it was true, what she had said to Ruby. She didn’t love him, but she could see herself falling for him eventually. And perhaps that’s the worst part. Not just how he stomped on her trust and turned it into dust, but how she’s now mourning the _what if_ and _could have been_ of a relationship doomed to fail.

And to think that, for a moment, she actually believed she had a chance at happiness. But tonight was just a reminder that a happy ending isn’t in the cards for her – that she will marry Graham, and be a good queen, because that is all there is to her life. Love and bliss are a luxury she can’t afford, and she was a foolish girl to pretend otherwise even for a few hours. Duty and honour, it’s all there is – and god knows what little honour she has left, at this point.

She startles when the door opens, only for her face to pale when she meets her mother’s eyes across the room. The queen is still for a second, taking in the scene in front of her, before she walks toward the couch. The air escapes Emma’s lungs when she is pulled into a tight embrace and, for a moment, she doesn’t know what to do – she expected her mother to be upset, rightfully so. She is anything but, all soft comfort and warm hugs, and Emma’s chin wobbles with the feelings she can barely swallow down anymore.

“Oh honey,” Mary Margaret whispers in her ear. “Are you okay?”

Emma isn’t exactly certain what she expected when she opened her mouth to reply, but surely it wasn’t that pitiful croak of a sob. It escapes her lips before she can swallow it down, sad and pathetic, and it’s enough to open the water gates again. The tears are hot on her cheeks and salty when they come to die on her lips – that is, before her mother pulls her even closer to her and lets Emma damp her sweater with tears. She somewhat registers her father moving closer, his hand warm and reassuring on the back of her head.

She somewhat registers it’s the first time both her parents are comforting her at once. Which doesn’t help at all, as far as thoughts go – it makes her sobs louder, even if she presses her mouth to her mother’s shoulder to muffle the sounds. The fabric against her face soon turns damp with the tears Emma can’t keep at bay. It’s too much, the memories of last night, this morning; the feeling of her mother’s arms around her; the soft caresses of her father’s hand on her head. It’s all too much.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. The words come out broken, weak. “I fucked up again.”

Her mother tightens her hold around Emma’s shoulders and, if she could, she would probably pull her even closer. But they are already pressed so close to each other as it **_is_** that, if it weren’t for her own racing heart, she would feel her mother’s heart beating against her chest.

“You didn’t fuck up, honey,” her mother reassures her with the kind of soft, soothing voice Emma has never heard her use before. “He played you. You couldn’t have guessed.”

But she could – she _should_ have guessed, here lies the problem. She let her feelings decide for her and paid the price for it, and now she needs to face the consequences on both her heart and her reputation. She did ruin the both of them in only a few hours, after all, and she has no doubt it must be all over the Internet by now. Fuck, it’s probably been trending for hours.

Emma steps back, both to escape her mother’s embrace and to wipe the tears away from her cheeks. Her head is hurting from crying too much, her nose itchy, and she probably looks like a mess – hell, she _feels_ like a rightful mess.

“You’re not mad?” she asks, her voice that of a little girl who fears being scolded. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it most likely wouldn’t be the last either.

Mary Margaret’s smile is sad when she cups her daughter’s cheeks with the delicacy only a mother has. Her thumbs brush against Emma’s skin, getting rid of her last tears. “I’m not particularly thrilled but – you’re upset, rightfully so, and I want to be there for you. No boy is allowed to break my daughter’s heart.”

Emma’s heart swells in her chest as her chin starts wobbling again, mouth pressed into a small tight-lipped smile as to not start crying again. She’s not a crier, usually, and a headache is already forming between her eyes – she blames it on her frail nerves and the pressure of her upcoming wedding. She would otherwise never cry for a boy, seriously.

“Tell us what happened,” her father adds.

He’s frowning, almost as confused as he looks worried, but Emma doesn’t know how to interpret the feelings she reads on his face. She doesn’t know him as much as she does her mother, so his reactions are still foreign to her at times, his mind unreadable. Not that Emma focuses much on that; her father will tell her whatever is bothering him, once the time has come.

For now, she takes a deep breath before settling into her retelling of the events of the previous night. Everybody listens in silence, even if Ruby and Elsa interrupt her at some point to admit to the peer pressure of the previous night – not that they need to find Emma excuses when everyone knows she could never be forced into doing something she doesn’t want to do. They otherwise listen to her story without a word, her mother only gasping at the end – her fingers pressed to her mouth and her eyes widening a little. By the time Emma explains how she bumped into Granny when coming back to the castle, she feels emotionally drained and physically exhausted. But a nap can’t be in order, not when there is so much damage control to be done – her mother might not be upset, but it doesn’t mean their problems will suddenly disappear out of the blue because Emma wishes them away.

Her mother stays silent for long minutes, arms folded on her chest as she worries her bottom lip, staring at some spot on the floor. Emma feels herself growing more anxious by the second, not even Ruby’s hand in hers managing to comfort her in the least. It only becomes worse when her mother looks up, eyes finding her father’s – they have a silent conversation just then, one Emma isn’t privy of, before her father nods and leaves the room. Her mouth opens in a complain, not wanting David to leave just yet, but the look on the queen’s face is one she knows well. She’s down to business, professional and serious, already forming plans.

As if hearing Mary Margaret’s thoughts, Belle appears out of nowhere, smartphone in hand, ready to work. They set everything into motion in a matter of minutes, making Emma dizzy – things about finding the photographer’s identity, suing for trespassing, making sure every media in this damn country know what they risk for releasing pictures taken illegally. The harm has been done already, and all they can do is damage control at this point but – they will try as hard as they can, that’s for sure.

Then Belle is leaving the room, and her mother is looking at Emma again.

“You need to tell Graham.”

Emma’s mouth opens in dismay, no word coming out of it for a very long time. She closes it again before she shakes her head, squeezing Ruby’s hand a little tighter as panic rises inside her stomach and up her throat.

“No – I can’t –”

“You can, and you will,” her mother disagrees. “He needs to hear it from you, if nothing else. And we need to know about tomorrow.”

Emma blinks in surprise, unable to react at first. How she managed to forget she is getting married tomorrow, she has no idea, but everything that has been happening turned the wedding into the least of her worries. Only now it is coming back to slap her in the face, especially with the implications behind her mother’s words – if Graham agreed to marry her up until now, he can very quickly change his mind if he so wishes. Emma wouldn’t even blame him for it, to be honest, not after everything that he’s been through because of her.

And then she wouldn’t have a husband, wouldn’t be crowned, and Killian would become king instead.

Just _great_.

So Emma sighs loudly before she nods to her mother – it’s not like she has another choice anyway, she needs to talk to Graham. This conversation is long overdue, after all.

Thankfully, her mother isn’t a cruel woman, and she decides that Emma first and foremost needs breakfast if they are to survive the day. It’s still early in the morning, after all, half the castle not even awake yet. So Emma has an hour to lose herself in her thoughts as she munches on a piece of toast, the bread like cardboard in her mouth, and half-listens to the conversation her mother is having with Granny. Ruby is still by her side, even if Elsa stepped out early, to check on Anna and the other guests.

Unfortunately for Emma, breakfast comes to an end sooner than she would have liked it and, after a quick shower, she finds herself pacing in front of the door to Graham’s bedroom. More than once, she stops, ready to knock, before fear paralyses her. The words she’s trying to rehearse get stuck at the back of her throat, coming out as a pathetic squeak when she’s startled by the door opening in front of her.

He’s dressed for the day – a pair of slacks and a smile shirt – and his smile isn’t unkind when his eyes meet hers. The grey of his iris has lost its usual warmth, though, the only clue that he already knows what Emma came to tell him. Both a blessing and a curse – she doesn’t have to tell him, but he’s already had time to resent her for it.

“Can we talk?” she asks. Then, looking around her at the empty corridor, “Maybe not here.”

Graham agrees with a nod, before opening the door a little more to let Emma enter. She’s never been in his room before, but she isn’t surprised to find out it’s not very lived-in – his suitcase is still in a corner, everything tidy like the bedroom of a grand hotel. It makes sense, of course – those sleeping arrangement are only temporary, and they’re to share new apartments once they are married. Still, it makes a weight fall in Emma’s stomach, how much of a guest Graham seems to be, not really fitting in. Not for the first time, she wonders if it’s worthwhile, or just one huge mistake.

“You heard,” she states as she stands in the middle of the room, hands in the back pockets of her jeans and rocking back and forth on her feet.

Graham doesn’t say anything for a moment, before he tilts his head and replies, “I think everybody did.”

There is no judgment in his tone, but Emma winces anyway. Perhaps it would make things easier, if he indeed was upset at her, but Graham is one of the good ones, and ‘anger’ probably isn’t part of his vocabulary. Yet another reason to add to the long list of why he deserves better than the shit show that is Emma’s life.

“I’m sorry, I – you have every right to be upset.”

“I’m not upset?” he replies, making it sound both like a question and a surprised exclamation. Which, really, doesn’t help matter be.

Emma folds her arms on her chest and chuckles humourlessly, two defence mechanisms. “’I’m not mad, just disappointed’,” she mimics in a very bad rendition of Graham’s accent. “Because that makes things better.”

“To be honest, I’m not exactly trying to make you feel better,” he admits.

Emma meets his eyes then, hers widening a little, before she lets out a very unladylike snort – one that Graham soon mirrors with a nervous chuckle of his own, shaking his head before he raises a hand to rub against his face.

“You chose me,” he goes on. “I agreed, but _you_ chose _me_. I won’t play the ‘I have lots of other options’ card with you, because it would be useless. But the ball is in your camp. If you still wish to marry me, then I’ll see you at the altar tomorrow. If you change your mind, then I’ll pack my things and go home. Whatever you choose, Emma.”

She sighs and closes her eyes, mind racing. It would be so easy – just cancelling the whole thing, instead of forcing Graham (and herself) into a loveless marriage. It would be the right thing to do, too, if their love lives were the only thing on the line. But, as always, Emma needs to think about her family, her country, her people – and it’s not so simple anymore.

She locks eyes with Graham again, and see the determination on his features as he takes a step toward her – soft but certain, even more so when he raises a hand to cup her cheek, to angle her head up. The kiss is – it’s enjoyable, as far as kisses go. Emma has had much worse, with too much tongue and hands wandering a little too loosely. She’s definitely had worse but – she’s had better too. Or, at least, more memorable.

It’s a nice kiss, but Emma doesn’t feel anything deep within her stomach. That pull in her navel that always has her moving closer, that need to run her hand through her lover’s hair. It’s nice, but not magical – no fireworks, no butterflies, nothing.

Judging from both the sigh on Graham’s lips, and the look in his eyes when he steps away, the feeling is more than mutual. Emma doesn’t know if she wants to be relieved, or disappointed, or perhaps a bit of both – she doesn’t know which option would be the best one, at this point in the game.

There **_is_** a real sense of relief, when she steps away and the awestruck look isn’t on Graham’s face – he’s frowning lightly, looking just as lost and confused as she feels. Emma doesn’t know what she would have done, if he’s reacted any other way, if he’s shown signs of romantic feelings when all she feels for him falls into the ‘platonic’ box. But, as it is, a small laugh escapes her, while he shakes his head in sad amusement.

“What are we doing?” Emma asks.

She doesn’t expect an answer, but Graham’s “Our duty” mirrors her own thoughts.

And perhaps it is what makes him a perfect match for her – they’re both in here for the same thing, neither expecting more than the other can give. No feelings but friendship and affection, nothing but duty for their country and the satisfaction of a good marriage between good families. It will have to be enough, apparently. Maybe Emma can live with that.

She sighs, before moving closer to Graham. He opens his arms to her without second thought, embracing her and putting his chin on top of his head. Emma draws little comfort from this hug, not when she closes her eyes and all she can see is Killian’s smile. Her heart tightens at the mental image; it will take time for her to forget, for her heart to heal.

She’s never been at the receiving end of a broken heart before.

“You will be fine,” he tells her softly. “And even if you fuck up, you won’t be alone. Married life can’t possibly be worse than our days as an engaged couple.”

It takes a few seconds of disbelief before Emma laughs out loud, and slaps his chest. Graham’s smile is on the verge of smug, obviously proud of himself for the terrible joke. But if he can forgive her for everything, yeah. She will be fine, indeed.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You clearly don’t.”

She slaps his chest again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god this is it guys! The last one!
> 
> (jk there's still an epilogue)

The dress is too tight for her chest. It is the only thing Emma forces herself to focus on as she makes her way to St Guinevere Cathedral, refusing to think about literally anything else. It's the kind of rabbit hole you can't climb up out of once you've fallen into it. She will get married today, and crowned queen after her birthday, and her dress is squeezing her breasts. How unfortunate. The bride is supposed to lose weight because of stress, not gain, but then again when has she ever done something like everybody else?

A loose strand of hair falls on her forehead, and she wets her fingers with her tongue before fixing her hairdo. At least her eyeliner is flawless, and with it her lipstick. With how long she spent getting ready this morning, it better be. Especially knowing how many journalists will be there, waiting for her – waiting to be the first one to take a picture, to analyse her outfit down to the earrings and the diadem she is wearing. She can't blame them, really, but still she wishes she could spend this day away from the public eye, away from the gossiping and the whispers of Twitter.

Her legs tremble a little when she gets out of the car, thankful for her father’s hand in hers as he helps her up. Never would she had hoped for her father, of all people, to walk her to the altar, but he looks dashing in his suit, and proud of her too. Emma ignores how the warmth of his blue eyes is full of sadness because – nope, not today.

She smiles at the cameras for a few moments before they enter the antechamber where she is to wait for the beginning of the ceremony. Ruby must have been there before, because there is a small bottle of rum in a corner, and Emma drinks it in one gulp. The alcohol burns her throat and does little to ease her nerves, but Emma still smiles at her best friend’s way of caring about her. Only Ruby would dare bring alcohol to a church, seriously.

An altar boy enters the room, his robe brushing against the marbled floor as he tells her the bishop is ready if she is. Emma's breath catches in her throat as she turns to her father, panic rising inside her. There is no going back from there, and yet she can't take a single step forward, can't bring herself to leave the antechamber and meet her fate. Her eyes must be wild and crazy, for her father moves closer to her, hands on her arms.

“There's something you need to know.”

Emma closes her eyes, shakes her head. “Please no fortune cookie speech now.”

“No, you'll want to hear that.” There is a kind smile on his lips even if his next words are a dagger to her heart. “I talked to Killian.”

“Dad, no.”

She shakes her head even more, as if it would help keeping both his words and her thoughts away. She hates him for bringing Killian up now of all times; she hates herself even more for caring so much. It would be a lie to pretend Killian hadn't been on her mind every single minute since yesterday, but it only hurts admitting it. There is no point in suffering that way, if she can avoid it.

“No, darling. Listen.” David rubs his hand against her bare arm, goosebumps rising on her skin. “Zelena manipulated him too. He told her he didn't want the crown, and she went behind his back. Killian didn't tip the journalist. Zelena did.”

Emma's lips part in a silent gasp, surprise painting her features at the revelation. It makes so much sense that, for a second, guilt overtakes her. She was so fast in believing Killian had yet again played and betrayed her, that it hadn't even crossed Emma's mind that another, perfectly logical, explanation could even exist. But it is logical, so much that it hurts, right there between her lungs.

Emma blinks, once, not knowing how to react. Surely an apology is in order, but what would be the point? She is five minutes away from taking another man as her husband, she can't just – think about running away, think about anything but her vows to Graham and to her country.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” she asks her father, her voice more broken and uncertain that she would want it to be.

It would be so easy, for her father to offer her the right choice, the perfect solution on a silver platter. It would be so easy, to let someone decide for her when all she's been doing is both fight for her freedom and follow her duty. Just give her responsibilities to someone else, just for a little while…

But her father shrugs, helplessly, and Emma sighs in despair. She starts nibbling on her bottom lip when the altar boy comes back to check on her. It's obvious that she keeps people waiting, at this point, but try as she might it is as if her legs are made of lead and she can't move forwards.

Her father brushes a hand against her elbow then, promising to be back in a second, and he's the one out of the antechamber then, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts and demons. Her fingers wrinkle the shirt of her dress in a vain attempt at easing her nerves, her lipstick probably ruined by her teeth at this point.

She doesn't sigh in relief when her mother enters the room with her father a few minutes later, but it's a close thing. If anything else, Emma's shoulders sag a little with the knowledge that her mother will make everything better. She always does.

As it is, the queen grabs Emma by the elbows, making it impossible for the princess to look away. Her eyes lock with her mother’s, green against green, and for a moment Emma forgets to breathe.

“What do you want to do?” her mother asks. There is no edge to her question, only sincere curiosity. “Do you want to marry Graham?”

“I want to be queen,” is all she replies.

All she can reply. She wants to be queen, and they all know she needs to be married for that. There is no point in having that conversation yet again, not when she's supposed to get married, not when there is no alternative to the issue. Fuck that damn stupid law, seriously.

“Is the crown worth your panic attack?” her mother goes on.

The simple yet straightforward ‘yes’ in on the tip of Emma's tongue, but she's unable to say it out loud. She's unable to lie so blatantly, not when her parents are the only one in the room, looking worried beyond reason. She can't lie to them, and she's tired of lying to herself. The crown isn't worth her panic attack, and it's time for her to admit it.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asks for the second time, her voice even more broken than the first time.

The queen sighs, lost in her own thoughts for a moment. No doubt she's going through all their options as quickly as possible, the way Emma did moments ago, and no doubt she's coming to the same conclusions Emma did. There is no miracle solution to their problem. There never was one.

“Well…” her mother starts.

She's interrupted by the door opening behind her, and Graham entering the room. His suit fits him so well, looking as dashing as ever, that it makes Emma only feel worse about the entire thing. But worry flashes through his blue eyes as he takes Emma in, and he moves closer to her with a sad smile on his lips.

“You have the worst timing in the world, you know that?”

A self-deprecating chuckle escapes Emma's lips even as she leans against Graham’s chest when he opens his arms to her. His hug does little to ease her nerves and her frantic mind, but she appreciates the solidarity.

She goes for a sarcastic reply, which really wouldn't help with the matter but would make her feel better, when the doors of the church open with a loud bang, startling them all. She steps away from Graham’s embrace, eyes wide as they land on Killian.

His shirt is half-buttoned, not even tucked in his pants, and he's panting hard like he just finished running a marathon. He freezes when his eyes meet Emma's, surprise painting his features.

“Speaking of bad timing…” Graham comments in a whisper.

Emma can't even find it in herself to punch his chest for the bad joke, not when she's staring at Killian like he could disappear if she blinks one too many times. He moves closer to her, fast, shaking his head a little.

“Emma, I swear I didn't do it. I didn't even…”

“I know,” she replies simply.

“You do?”

His eyes widen even more, so blue and deep that Emma drowns in them for a moment. She shakes her head, and smiles. It's sad and a little apologetic, but she doesn't know how to apologise for not trusting him, not believing him. So she just nods, biting down on her bottom lip.

She doesn't need words anyway, not when one shared glance means so much more than any discussion ever could. She sees guilt in his eyes, as well as worry and an apology he can't utter either. She reads far more than she would like, in that single glance, and has to look away for a moment. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts.

Which, obviously, is when the doors open again, and Emma can't help but throw her arms in the air. Graham grins a little, and there's the ghost of a smile on her father’s mouth too when Robin, followed by Marian, enters the now cramped room.

“Are you aware we are all waiting for you?” Robin asks, unaware of the storm brewing inside the antechamber.

Everyone stares at the Prime Minister for a moment, none of them ready to explain quite yet that the wedding may not happen after all. At least, that's what Emma thinks is going to happen. They can't actually force her to walk all the way to the altar and say ‘I do’, right?

_Right_?

Thankfully, her mother saves Emma from any embarrassing conversation by explaining the situation to Robin in as little words as possible. The Prime Minister runs a hand through his dark hair, looking away with a shake of his head. Whatever he thought was happening that got the ceremony delayed, it obviously wasn't this.

“But does she really have to get married?” Marian asks softly, all eyes falling in her. “It's the law but…”

“Laws can change,” the queen finishes in a breath, before turning to Killian. “Are you still giving up on your rights to the crown?”

Killian's eyes widen even more, like a deer in the headlights, before he shakes his head furiously. His hand finds Emma's, fingers squeezing hers. “Emma should have the crown. I'm out.”

It takes longer for Emma to come to the right conclusions, if the look of delight on her mother’s face is anything to go by. But she does come to the right conclusions, a few seconds later, like a metaphorical bubble lighting up above her head.

“We change the law.”

Robin nods, and adds, “Everyone from the government is here today. It's not exactly professional, but we can get their approval today. The law will be written and voted before your birthday.”

A grin settles on Emma's lips, ending in a gleeful little laugh as she turns to Graham. “I don't have to marry you!”

Graham laughs, his hand squeezing her forearm. “Please, pretend to be sad about rejecting me on the day of our wedding.”

She shakes her head even as she slips the ring off her finger and gives it back to him. The simple yet meaningful “thank you” comes out of her lips in a whisper, and Graham nods back at her. He looks relieved, almost, and Emma sighs at the thought that she no longer has to trap him into a marriage neither of them really wanted in the first place. Graham deserves all the good things, deserves more than she could have ever offered.

She smiles to him one more time before her eyes find Killian's again. He stands a little to the side, silent and still, but smiles back at her proudly when their eyes meet. He only needs one nod for Emma to understand his thoughts, for Emma to know everything will be alright in the end.

“Seriously guys, what are – fuck, what did I miss?”

Emma can only laugh at Ruby's confused face when her best friend enters the room. She laughs, so loudly her ribs ache a little.

 

…

 

The sigh escapes her in a series of little whimpers as Emma makes her way to the altar. She changed out of her dress and into a more comfortable outfit, and already the whispers are everywhere. It's not hard to guess something is off about the wedding, especially when she makes her way to the pulpit.

Her fingers drum against the old wood of the pulpit when she looks at the audience in front of her, a knot of nervousness tightening in her stomach. Robin and Marian are sitting in the first row, next to her parents, and it's the Prime Minister Emma elects to focus on while she speaks. If the way he motions for her to keep her chin up and to smile are anything to go by, she made the right choice.

“Hello everyone,” she starts in the microphone. “I'm certain you're wondering what is going on. Up until five minutes, I was too.”

Her mother lets out a nervous chuckle, one that makes Emma smile a little more sincerely.

“We're here today because an ancient law wants me to get married before I can become queen. Which, seriously, is not the best reason to get married in the first place, especially today. This is the twenty-first century, and women in our country aren't allowed to rule without a man by their side? How ridiculous is that?”

Her eyes find Ruby's in the crowd, both her best friend and Mulan sitting next to her giving her the thumbs up. Aurora might be cheering, too.

“Eala prides itself on being a modern country. We have so many laws about gender equality, about LGBT rights. And yet a princess can't be a queen in her own right? What kind of message are we sending to the world?”

Robin makes a motion with his fingers, telling her to speed up, and Emma nods in reply.

“I know it is unexpected, and not entirely professional, but I would like to pass a law today. Or, rather, to nullify the law saying a princess has to be married to become queen. All in favour, say ‘aye’.”

Silence settles within the audience as Emma's words echoes in the cathedral. She somewhat registers that a camera is pointed at her face, the red dot telling her all she needs to know about who exactly heard her speech -- mainly, everyone with access to a tv or an Internet connection.

“Aye,” echoes Robin’s voice.

It is soon followed by Minister Harper’s agreement, then another, and another one, another one. Soon all the ministers in the audience are agreeing on the nullification of the law, and Robin stands up to come next to her. His smile is proud, his brown eyes sparkling happily.

“The majority wins,” he states. “An Ealan princess no longer has to be married to be crowned queen.”

Aurora does cheer this time, and with her all of Emma's friends as well as a good part of the audience. But all Emma can acknowledge is Killian in a corner, leaning against a pillar. He's clapping, and he grins when he notices her looking at him, throwing her a wink for good measure. Emma grins back.

“Excuse me, Your Highness.” Emma turns her head to find the bishop standing next to her. “No wedding today, then?”

Emma opens her mouth to reply a firm no, before she thinks better of it. She bites down on her lip, a mischievous grin blossoming on her lips.

“Well now that you mention it…”

 

…

 

The throne room is quiet, such a sharp contrast to the main hall where the festivities are still in full swing. It may not be her wedding they are celebrating, but the union of her parents is worth partying until the early hours of the morning. Emma smiles at the happiness on her mother’s face as she exchanged her vows with the love of her life, the pride in her father’s eyes when he whispered an emotional “I do”. A happy ending, finally.

Emma sighs when she sits on the throne, closing her eyes. She feels happy for the first time in weeks, the pressure of everything no longer weighing down on her shoulders. It makes for a good change, no longer having to worry about her future. Her mother and she agreed that she will not be crowned now, will keep learning by the queen’s side until she is ready, and that's a relief too.

Things are back to normal and quiet again, at last.

Soft footsteps echo in the empty room, and Emma opens her eyes to find Killian standing in front of her. His suit jacket is long gone, his tie too, and he looks handsome in his crisp white shirt, hair a mess on top of his head.

They haven't had time to talk since this morning, a conversation long overdue, and Emma's heart starts beating a little faster in her ribcage.

“May I have an audience with you, Your Highness?” he asks with a bow and a smirk.

Emma grins, too. “You may, My Lord. What is your problem and how may I be of assistance?”

Killian keeps his head down, but still he raises a hand to scratch behind his ear, the tips of them turning a little pink. “There is this woman, you see, and she's way out of my league, like they say.”

“That is a problem, indeed,” Emma finds herself replying, even if her heart is in her throat and she can only croak the words. “How do you not know this woman shares your feelings?”

“I don't,” Killian replies, before standing up once more. “But I was a dick to her, so why would she?”

“She wasn't exactly nice with you either.”

Killian shakes his head in disagreement, his smile a little more nervous now. Dimples flash on his cheeks and Emma licks her lips.

“Even if she does like me back, there is another problem. You see, she's the crown princess and… I'm just a boy, standing in front of…”

“Fuck, you're such a nerd.”

Killian laughs out loud, the noise cut off in a huff when Emma throws herself into his arms. He does hug her back, so tightly her feet no longer touch the floor even before he decides to spin her around. Emma laughs in his neck, breathless when he stops and her feet find the marbled floor again.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers against his neck, before pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there. Killian shivers in reply, holding her closer still.

“That's alright, love.”

He leans away if only to capture her lips into a kiss Emma is all too happy to deepen. It makes her dizzy, warm and content, and she sighs against his mouth. It's far from their first kiss, but this one is different from the other ones -- a promise they can, and will, keep this time, hope for her feelings for him to finally blossom, for her to finally allow herself to fall for him. The way she should.

“I'm not marrying you, though.”

“Aye, I know. You need to make a statement, I totally get that. I don't care, I just want you.”

Emma doesn't know how to reply to that. So she chooses to do the sensible thing, and kisses him again. Killian all too happily obliges.

 


	22. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is finally it, guys! A big thank you to everyone who read and followed this fic, as well as to my friends who cried a lot when I was teasing this epilogue on twitter.
> 
> If you like my writing, please check out my other multichap in progress Long and Lost, I will try to update that one soon too!

_She plays with a piece of fabric, right where the corset of her dress ends and the skirt begins. Tendrils of hair stick uncomfortably to her neck, still wet from the long minutes spent under the pouring rain after the bug gave up on her. It was as if fate itself was preventing her from running away, both from Boston and her responsibilities, and Emma has never been one to ignore the signs thrown her way. She wasn’t meant to run away. She was meant to be right there, in a beautiful dress, ready to speak in front of an army of journalists._

_Fate works in funny ways, sometimes._

_Emma looks at herself one last time in the mirror – her eyes are still a little puffy and red, but the makeup does a great job of hiding that, and also the bags under her eyes. It’s obvious that her hair was drenched not five minutes ago, and that she had to get dressed in a hurry,_ _foregoing_ _the accessories. Neal’s necklace lies between her collarbones, though, and it takes Emma barely half a second of reflexion before she grabs it and tugs. The chain breaks under the pressure, and she drops the pendant on a nearby table. She doesn’t need that kind of reminder, doesn’t need it to anchor her to a life that no longer_ _exists_ _._

_Belle smiles at her, but it is her mother’s hand on her elbow that has Emma startling, before she nods. It is time, and she follows the queen to the room where the press conference is happening. Her nerves prevent her from really listening to her mother’s introduction speech, and only a few moments later she is invited to stand on the little platform, right behind the microphone._

_She looks down at it for long seconds, if only because she doesn’t have to look at the crowd in front of her. But then Emma remembers the old trick from their debate class, and she finds Ruby’s eyes in the room, never looking away from her as she clears her throat._

_“Good evening, everyone,” she starts, her voice wavering a little on the words. She knows what she is supposed to say – her mother made sure she knew every word – yet the sentences feel void of any meaning when they come back to her. She sighs, before moving closer to the mic. “I’m sorry, I’m really not good at speeches. I’ve done a very good job of not being the centre of the attention for a very long while, so this is new to me.”_

_Ruby smiles at her, confident for the both of them where all Emma can feel is the frantic beating of her own heart against her ribcage, the pounding of her blood in her ears._

_“I’m actually used to running away from attention. To running away, period, come to think about it. Because it’s easier that way, I guess, when you’re afraid. But – I’m not so afraid anymore. Until an hour ago, I had every_ _intention_ _of giving up my claim to the throne. Just going back to my old life, going back to being a random teenager in America. But then – I wondered how I’d feel. If I’d be disappointed, if I would regret my choice at some point. And then, I realised that I had spent a ridiculous amount of time only thinking about myself.”_

_She doesn’t mean for the words to be bittersweet, or for them to hold any kind of underlying meaning. But Emma glances at her mother as she speaks, and the queen’s face falls at the words, going a little pale. The pain of abandonment is still fresh in her heart, and it will take time, for her to accept what her mother did._

_There is hurt in Mary Margaret’s eyes, and regret too, but she still manages to smile, and to nod for Emma to continue. As if she expected it, or perhaps accepted that her daughter will forever resent her for the choices of her past._

_“So I remembered what my Granny told me a hundred times. That I have a bad habit of taking care of other people first, and then of myself. And so, I decided that if I could focus on people’s problems as much as I focused on mine today – then maybe I wouldn’t be that bad at being a princess.”_

_She looks at Ruby, then at Granny standing next to her – the older woman’s eyes are misty, despite her smile. Then she glances at her mother, and the same kind of smile welcomes her, proud, almost impressed._

_“So this morning when I woke up, I was Emma Swan. But now, I choose to be Emmaline Eva Ruther Blanchard, princess of Eala.”_

…

Emma is twenty-eight when she is crowned queen.

There is nothing tragic about it. Mary Margaret feels like she's had enough, three decades at the head of a country, and that she now wants to live her life away from her duties. Emma is ready, and it's a decision they take together, so Mary Margaret decides to step away one summer, and Emma is crowned at St Guinevere Cathedral – where it all began, her father grins, and she punches his shoulder with a laugh.

She doesn't laugh on the day of her coronation. The crown is heavy on her head; the cloak even more so as it falls down her back and to the floor, red fabric rimmed with faux ermine fur. Her steps are small and measured as she enters the cathedral and walks down the aisle, toward the bishop. Emma tries not to focus on the second crown, on a stool next to him – even larger and heavier than the one on her head, that of a queen and not a princess.

Instead, she notices her friends from the corner of her eye. Ariel smiles at her, hands on young Melody’s shoulders, as if afraid the girl is going to start running around like a wild child. Eric stands next to her, and with them Aurora, Mulan, Ruby. Emma's lips twitch at the sight of her best friend, now radiant in her red dress – where Emma will step in as queen, Ruby will as the queen’s first assistant, like it was meant to be. Belle too deserves to retire, after all.

Emma keeps walking, forcing herself not to look down so as not to lose her balance. There are so many people there today, close friends and strangers alike, acquaintances she made along the way. Rulers of other countries, noblemen of Eala, prestigious guests from halfway across the world. It’s almost scary, how packed the cathedral is, but Emma doesn’t let it overwhelm her, terrify her.

Instead, she focuses on a few people. She focuses on Henry standing next to their parents – gone is the lonely orphan, now blossomed into a witty teenager. His outfit matches his adoptive father’s, in the navy blue of Eala nobility, and he grins at Emma when their eyes meet. It’s the two of them and their parents now, their own happily ever after – the one they all deserved, after years of pain and heartbreak.

And her own happily ever after – the happy ending Emma picked for herself, standing to her mother’s left. Same blue outfit, same shit-eating grin that Emma can only mirror. Killian looks dashing in a three-piece suit, but she likes him better in casual clothes, away from his title and his rank, the ‘just Killian’ she first met at a ball all those years ago. Just Killian who made her hate him, before she fell for him, before she agreed he was everything, and then some.

Emma knows that, soon, she will be pressured to marry him. That her advisers are not all that happy with her staying unmarried, with her not having an heir yet – they can pressure her all they want, but she will not cave. Her future, she will choose for herself – she fought enough for that luxury. It would be lying to say that she doesn’t love Killian’s smirk when she disagrees with people on the subject, after all, like he takes pleasure in her stubbornness.

He winks at her just now, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she decides to focus back on the bishop in front of her. She can’t allow herself to be distracted, not now of all times. So she cleans her mind as she takes a deep breath, stopping a few moments later to kneel in front of the altar.

The bishop presents her the royal sceptre, silver buttercup flowers adorning the staff while the tip is made of a diamond. “Will you solemnly swear to govern the people of this Kingdom of Eala according its laws and customs? Will you cause justice and law to be executed in the Kingdom of Eala?””

Emma finds herself breathless for a moment, before she finds her voice. It quivers a little as she replies, “I solemnly swear to do so.”

The bishop hands her the sceptre before presenting her a sword – its design matches that of the sceptre, the metal of the blade matching the silver buttercup flowers of the hilt.

“Will you solemnly swear to protect the people of this Kingdom of Eala in times of war, to lead them into combat and victory if they so need it?”

“I solemnly swear to do so,” she replies, her voice already more confident.

The bishop hands her the sword next. It is heavy in her hand, even more so than the sceptre – but so is the weight of her duties to her country. She lowers her head then, letting the man take the crown from her head. There is a moment where she doesn’t even dare to take a breath, just in case, as she watches from the corner of her eye as the bishop puts the crown on a red cushion before he, slowly, carefully, takes the second crown.

It rests perfectly on her head, despite the weight – as if it was meant to be worn by her, and only her. A selfish thought to have, perhaps, but one that makes Emma smiles as the bishop tells her that she can rise. So she smiles at him, too, and he smiles back before motioning for her to turn around. She does so, sceptre in one hand, sword by her side.

“I present you Her Royal Highness Emmaline Eva Ruth Blanchard, Queen of Eala. May her reign be long and peaceful.”

The audience erupts in cheers and applause. Emma only has eyes for Killian’s grin.


End file.
